Survival
by koneko zero
Summary: "Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty's empire would be anything less than gruelling; however, he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home." Post-Reichenbach to reunion, via Sherlock's p.o.v.
1. Chapter 1

**Genre:** Angst, drama, friendship – there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)**  
>Chapter Length:<strong> 3,552 words**  
>Spoilers:<strong> End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"**  
>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs

**A.N.:** I have read so many brilliant fics detailing John's suffering after the end of series 2, but as yet I haven't seen many at all for Sherlock and (much as I feel awful for John) I don't think our favourite consulting detective had an enjoyable three years either. And as the wonderfully patient **carolstime** (seriously, she's a Saint) requested it on LJ, here we are – a great, heaping, multi-chap. helping of Sherlock!angst.

Major thanks must be given to the amazing betas **velveteenkitten**, **infinityuphigh**, **patchsassy**, **interjection** and **smash_leigh** (all from LJ), who have all been so incredibly kind as to offer me their time and expertise.

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 1**

ooo

**He is not** unconscious. That is the first surprise.

He had expected the fall to send him under for at least half an hour, but instead he is only stunned when he rolls from the truck to the pavement. The pain, even after being cushioned by the bags (_full of duvets as well as the planned sheets, which he is currently very thankful for_), is near-blinding. The centimetre-long incisions he and Molly had made just behind his hairline and stitched so very carefully have burst open, split further with the force of impact, and he can feel the blood smeared across his face and in his hair. Hopefully it is enough to fool those necessary – even small head wounds tend to bleed badly, a fact he is counting on. He has to remind himself to relax, to keep his breathing slight and his eyes open no matter what. Despite the rain he is managing well; being on his side is making it easier.

The homeless network – the small portion he can trust with this – crowds forwards, hidden in plain sight as hospital visitors and local professionals, a few as nurses and two doctors, with a couple of paramedics waiting in the wings. He keeps up the façade anyway and, sure enough, is proven right once again when a couple of passing women (_secretaries, mid-twenties, both single, both looking for promotions, on the way to an early lunch_) join the crowd. There is a prick to the skin between his middle and ring fingers on his right hand, rushed and surreptitious, judging by the slight shake of the needle hidden in the nurse's (_Natalie, a hard woman from down by St. Paul's_) hands. He can't feel it working, although he knows it is, knows that any second he will – There. His hand is numb, the agony of the rest of his body (_pulled muscles, two cracked ribs on his right side, dislocated right shoulder and right knee, pain in his right wrist, lacerations, concussion_) being progressively stifled by the drugs. Sounds slur, black and bright spots hit his vision, the whole world slows down and speeds up all at once. It isn't the same as his long-ago hits of cocaine however there is a particular terror to it, a familiarity filling him with a mix of horror and shame after so many promises to Lestrade. He shoves the unwelcome feeling down, pushes everything away and prays his heartbeat slows enough in time. If anyone suspects – If John suspects –

It doesn't bear thinking about.

Sherlock's borrowed watch is beneath his sleeve. Still, even knowing the drugs are pulling and twisting his precious mind, that his internal clock is compromised, he is certain that John is late. He had factored in the moments of shock and the military training to overcome them, allowed for any stumbling and the cyclist (_Phil, one of the youngest in his network and a trustworthy boy, although he still has no idea of the full plan – only five do_) and even the possibility of John's limp re-emerging due to extreme emotional stress; he had worked it all out three times, and John should be here by now. If John is not here then, oh Lord, where is he? Did Phil hit him too hard? He told the boy not to be too rough, that he only needs a few extra seconds and a little disorientation, and he trusts the boy to stick to that. If not Phil though, then the sniper? Moriarty's man – itchy trigger finger, never planned to let them live no matter what Sherlock did or did not do, honest mistake, betrayal by one of his conspirators? (_He refuses to consider the thought that John has left him, knows better than that, __**hopes**__ for better than that, despite the lies he just told and the grief he knows he is causing._) He wants to look, to see for himself and be sure that the pain he is still in and the blood he is continuing to spill are worth it, but to move would be to give the game away entirely and it is not only John who is counting on him right now.

It keeps him still, that thought, but it does not (_cannot_) dispel the raw ache, the desperate need in both his skull and ribcage demanding that he move, _check_.

" –_lease_, he's my friend, he's my _friend_ – "

_John_. Slurred and stretched and warped (_probable concussion_) but there, approximately one-point-three meters away if he's compensating correctly and level with Sherlock's midsection. The Network must be crowding around his head, doing their jobs well. He can't bring himself to care in this moment – what focus he has is going straight to his friend, reaching for him if his blurry vision is to be believed, still repeating that same distressed phrase as he tries to latch on to Sherlock's 'corpse'.

Honestly he is not sure who has it worse. Himself, broken on the pavement, life and reputation in tatters and with so very much still to do alone (_alone as he had always wanted, had always __**been**__ but for John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and now he does not want his solitude at all_)? Or is it John, whose tone tells Sherlock far more than he ever wished to know about his friend's pain even though, for the doctor, the ordeal is "all over but the crying," as the saying goes?

Strong fingers at his wrist. Calloused in that very particular way which speaks of guns and military training, abraded and with the delicacy and assurance of years as a medical professional (_pronounced tremors denoting emotional distress, an involvement with the victim as well as usual human shock_) – John's fingers. John's hand is at his burning wrist, searching for a pulse. Sherlock's heart wants to speed up, the nervousness and fear of this moment, of all the things that could go so wrong, trying to trigger adrenaline but being lost to the drugs already flooding his bloodstream and numbing the bright pain sharpened by John's firm grip. A doctor (_David, usually found near Tower Bridge_) already has fingers at his throat, ignoring the too-slow but steady thud of Sherlock's pulse and gently jostling his shoulder (_he wants to scream, the pressure on the dislocated joint threatening to break his control_) just a few times before backing off, presumably shaking his head. John's fingers are being pried from his wrist, one of the women (_Aimee, from Battersea_) having held it just within his field of vision by tugging at John's own, not allowing him to get a proper reading on Sherlock's traitorous heartbeat.

He can hear the rattle of the trolley over the paving slabs. Almost there. Almost. It is beneath him to be affected by things like this – his body is, after all, only transport – however he cannot deny how desperately he needs this to be over. Even through the drugs it is as though his nerves are caught on barbed wire, the movement as they shift him to lie on his back blaring agony every which way, although it is becoming increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open.

Once as he is turned and again as he is lifted, he is blessed and cursed with the sight of John Watson. The older man is blatantly going into shock, his skin nearing grey and his limbs refusing to support him when he truly sees the smears of haemoglobin decorating Sherlock's nose and cheekbones. His temple and hair are likely the worst – the cuts he and Molly made were small, but they were close together and numerous. They will look messy. They were intended to look messy, once the stitches popped. Part of the act, and a convincing one if John's reactions are anything to go by (_he is admittedly blurry to Sherlock's eyes, but the shaking is obvious enough and the small noises, his slurred denials are close enough to be picked up under the general chaos_); however, right now he wishes he had never suggested them.

Still, Sherlock will not see this man, his best friend, for an unknown length of time once he is wheeled into the hospital, and the few glimpses of John he can steal are being tucked carefully away in his Mind Palace. Any view of him, even in such terrible distress, is to be treasured. He has only been a part of Sherlock's life for eighteen months, but Sherlock can no longer remember how he managed without 'the good doctor'. He has no interest in doing so either, except he must.

When they move to wheel him away it is a struggle not to reach out for him. He knows his arm twitches, spasms as though to begin the movement before he can clamp down on the impulse. Sherlock experiences one truly horrific moment of panic, waiting for the crack of a gunshot until it becomes clear that any visible shift is being put down to the unsteady trolley. Then they are around the corner and through the doors, the bright sky becoming wood and then cream ceiling lit by only four of the five humming strip-lights. The sounds of the commotion fade; the four of his Network still surrounding him conversing urgently but quietly to remain credible as they wheel him towards the lift and the mortuary.

His eyes are almost watering. The strain of remaining conscious against concussion and drugs and more stress than even he had anticipated is taking an increasing toll on his 'disguise'; ironically, he needs to close his eyes if he wishes to remain awake. He _needs_ to.

David's hand brushes over his face, fingers against his eyelids, the answer to his prayers. He keeps the motion slow, controlled, but his eyes _close_. The darkness is far more of a comfort than the soft lighting had been.

They move slower now – no need to hurry when the patient is already dead. The paramedics mutter goodbyes once they exit the lift, as much for Sherlock's sake as anyone else's, and Molly meets the doctors at the door to the mortuary, helping them to place him on a slab before they take their own leave. There is a little-used door two corridors away that leads directly on to the back-alleys and will allow them to disappear quickly and without arousing any suspicion. No one will return the clothes he gave them for their performance – part of their payment, and one he does not begrudge them in the slightest; they have certainly earned it.

Molly is gentle as she strips him to his underwear and runs the checks, her fingers cool and shaking ever so slightly when she touches him. He twitches his left hand to let her know they did it, that he really is alive, and she lets out one sharp sob before he hears the scratch of a fortnight old biro on paper – she's filling out the forms, getting everything out of the way as quickly as possible so that they can replace him.

His will states that he wants no viewing of his shell, it has done for years, but the more thorough they are the better. His substitute is two years younger than him, with similar bone structure and features – their eyes are as close to a perfect match as Sherlock could have dared hope for. Molly has, he knows, already completed the surgery to turn resemblance to reflection (_the mixed scents of the necessary chemicals on her hands, the surety of her steps, the slowing down of her breathing_) and now all that is left is to correlate the injuries, get Sherlock treated, and put him in some new, unfamiliar clothes.

"Dislocated shoulder, right. Badly sprained wrist, right. Damage to right side of ribcage – severe bruising or possible fractures." Molly's voice does not shake, although Sherlock would be the first to admit that his senses are somewhat dulled at the moment. This woman is so much stronger than he has given her credit for; to give him his due, however, it was hidden by how she reacted to him until recently.

It is a shock to realise that he has four friends. He will not complain that he is noticing so late though, all things considered. Had _he_ known, _Moriarty_ would have known, and Sherlock's careful plan would never have stood a chance. "Dislocated knee, right. Lacerations and bruising concentrated down right side of the body. Some further damage to abdomen and collar – abrasions. Severe head trauma, concentrated at right hairline and temple. Cause of death would be the head trauma," Molly finishes, muttering the last.

It is all information his body has already provided, but he is still grateful to her for spelling it out for him. Her care when she shifts the slab to the top of the trolley is also very much appreciated, and he wishes he could spare the time to thank her properly. He manages a soft mutter when they are in the storage cupboard. It is not enough. It could never be enough. He has never understood why all those people, all those clients, have wanted to stand and wring his hand and say those two words over and over again, but now things are different. Now Molly is the reason he is alive to eliminate the threats to John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and all he wants is to tell her how very much he appreciates every last breath of work and risk she has put in to it.

"Really, Molly," he tells her as she moves to his leg, "Thank you."

"It's alright. You don't – You don't need to thank me. You save people all the time, so it's a bit special to be the one to save you," she responds with a tiny smile, and her voice still fails to tremble. Oddly, it makes him proud. "Now bite down on this," she continues, pressing a guard against his lips and sounding slightly desperate. "You mustn't scream, Sherlock, please, whatever you do. There are rooms that back onto this one and I don't know if anyone will be able to hear."

He nods.

They press his kneecap back in to position, then his shoulder. Cleaning his cuts is time consuming, driving him in to the realm of simmering annoyance until the pain of having his wrist strapped knocks him back out of it. Finally his ribs are loosely taped, just enough to support them and hopefully prevent further injury without being restrictive. All are rush jobs, professional and effective but distinctly lacking in the usual care and hesitance. There is simply no time, nor do they have the proper supplies. Molly has done her best in collecting what little she can, however disinfectant, bandages and elastic supports can only do so much. The drug is also wearing off, making him only too aware of how much damage he has done to himself until Molly gives him a small dose of Etidocaine (_could have been so much worse – a miracle no bones broke_). Dressing is still hellish.

He doesn't scream. He does, however, come embarrassingly close to passing out, and it is a relief when Molly presses the near-full bottle of anaesthetic and two small, easily concealable cases of syringes in to his palm; he has no doubt that he will need them.

He insists upon staying to help her fabricate the injuries on his stand-in. Or, rather, he tries to – the damage to both his arms renders him less use than he had hoped and he can't produce the correct amount of force to break the bones or loosen the hold of long-stiff joints. He ends up slicing lacerations and creating abrasions according to instruction whilst Molly uses various medical clamps and more than one weight to re-create the worst of it. When he tries to say goodbye, she simply waves him away. Instead he scribbles a note, expressing his thanks on the back of a receipt when she is checking that the coast is clear for him to leave.

ooo

**He has never **told anyone about the flat in Catford. It is a small, one-bed affair, close to the station and within delivery distance of everything Sherlock considered essential. It is, of course, not listed under his own name but rather that of 'Robert Clarke' (_chosen for popularity and the lack of any hidden meaning or sentiment_), an identity Sherlock has held for almost five years, since just after his second (_and last_) major relapse. He has bank accounts and all the usual official paperwork, which has been used on a regular enough basis to ensure that no questions have ever been asked. There are a number of these accounts and identities that even Mycroft apparently has no knowledge of, and until today he had felt unusually guilty about keeping them a secret from John. Now he will consider it just another example of his genius and foresight.

The flat is colder than he would have expected. Cleaner as well, considering it should be "spruced," as Mrs. Hudson would say, once a month – which reminds him that he will need to cancel the cleaning contract or be out of here by a week on Thursday. It would, naturally, be more useful to test his disguise on the cleaning lady, let her see him and discover how likely it is to work in the midst of a crowd, however if she was to see _and recognise_ him… It does not bear thinking about. If it were _him_ they would come after that would be one thing, but Moriarty's gunmen will be ready to hunt down John and the others at the very first sign of his survival, and as such it is another entirely.

Namely, it is not a risk he can bring himself to take.

The assassins will stay, he deduces as he undresses and sinks back against the cold cotton of the bedsheets, for at least a fortnight. The reputation of "Boffin" Sherlock Holmes may have been scuppered by the press and in the minds of the general public, but Moriarty's men will know better. They will know that he has solved more crimes involving faked suicides than most police departments would in half a century, they will know that replicating one of them would be perfectly within the scope of his abilities, and they will know not to take his leap in to the abyss at face value. They will stay, possibly for a month or more if they deem it necessary, until they can be certain that he will not be 'pulling a Lazarus' – and even after that will only leave when it will not raise the wrong sorts of questions. They are, after all, professionals.

There are not many contacts upon whom he can rely and call for help, as much for the fact that most are homeless and not exactly reachable by phone as for the lack of anyone he can trust or whose life he dares risk.

There are, however, the two 'doctors' from earlier. They are a pair, as close as brothers, having looked out for each other and stuck together since David's first week on the streets; they will have obeyed Sherlock's instruction to keep the mobile phone he had pressed upon them for at least a week before trying to sell or trade it. One short, quiet (_risky_) phone call from the land-line later, he has the word out that someone wants to know who is tailing Mrs. Martha Hudson, DI Greg Lestrade and Dr. John Watson and will pay extremely well for any information as long as none of those involved are alerted to unwanted interest. Information will be conveyed at the earliest possible convenience; David will keep the phone until Sherlock tells him to do otherwise.

This, he knows, will be the easy part. Once these three (_it __**will**__ be three; the fourth, standby contract will have ended as soon as Sherlock's blood washed over the paving slabs_) are out of contact for too long, or do not take on the next assignment when expected, the entire organisation will be made aware of there being a problem. Sherlock will be anticipated wherever he goes, no matter what amount of subtlety he employs in his actions and movements. Dismantling Moriarty's web, even without that clever, clever spider sitting ready to utilise the appropriate threads, will be more difficult than anything he has ever previously attempted. Crimes upon crimes hidden beneath charities and firms and yet more crimes… Identifying just who it is he should be targeting will be a task in itself. Then the decisions of how to deal with them – Sherlock is not so naïve as to think that placing them all in prison is even feasible, never mind anything resembling a good idea.

On a more selfish level, the thought of leaving his life behind, of letting John and the others try to fill his place with hobbies or new people, makes him feel sick and bitter. The knowledge that there really is nothing else to be done if he wants to keep them alive only makes the churning in his stomach worse.

It takes two hours and an extra (_and probably inadvisable_) dose of painkillers for him to achieve the temporary peace of sleep.

ooo

Thank you for reading! I'll be updating this on a weekly basis until its eventual completion – I have a few chapters ready, so if I'm hit by writer's block anyone reading shouldn't be affected.

If you have the time and inclination I would greatly appreciate any comments you care to leave. No flames, please, but constructive criticism is appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Length:** 3,365 words

**Spoilers:** End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"

**Warnings:** Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs

**A.N.:** Well, I think we can safely say I wasn't expecting _that _kind of reception. Thank you so, so much for all the LJ comments and reviews, alerts and favourites on FFn – every one of them has meant the world to me. I never imagined even five people would approve of my scribbling so, well... Wow! Hopefully this next chapter doesn't disappoint you!

As with the last chapter, I have to thank the brilliant, kind betas that have been so brilliant about working on this with me. Thanks to them no one will have to suffer my stupid mistakes! So, many thanks and much love to the wonderful **interjection**, **velveteenkitten**, **infinityuphigh** and **patchsassy**. The lovely **smash_leigh** has been away this week, but she's been wonderful about letting me know so I absolutely must say thank you to her as well.

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 2**

ooo

**Ten days. Ten** full days (_barring the foolhardy, dangerous two hours he spent visiting his own grave, tearing his heart out watching Mrs. Hudson and John talk and mourn_) in his bland, one-bed Catford flat, all for recovery. It strikes him as a disgusting waste, but there is no Dr. John Watson or DI Lestrade here to take him in hand when he pushes himself too far and so he will have to err on the side of caution for the moment. He should probably remain in bed for at least another week to be on the safe side, according to the new, John-like voice muttering in the back of his head. Nevertheless, he finally has the information he needs and can afford no more wasted time.

The food is all tinned, stock switched every couple of months by either himself or one of the more trustworthy in his Network, however he has only ever kept four outfits here and now has barely one wearable one remaining. He also needs hair-dye (_bleach first, or the colour will not take_), a pair of cheap spectacles (_he has various fake lenses in the cupboard_), a new phone and watch, and new shoes. Pens and notebooks, perhaps, as the ones stored in the cabinet have begun to submit to the ravages of time – the paper is obviously a few years old and the ink is slow. Aside from that he can manage well enough, he's certain. The overnight bag and emergency supplies (_first-aid kit, torch, Swiss Army knife, batteries, revolver plus bullets, battered copy of _Red Harvest_ and insulated flask full of teabags_) are all in serviceable condition (_though it may be wise to buy new teabags anyway_) and he does not have any patience for luggage. Carrying more than one suitcase and a small bag from pillar to post would draw attention, not to mention the annoyance it would cause him to be dragging too much through airports and stations. The idea of Moriarty's web being confined to Britain is, after all, utterly ridiculous; most likely there will be cells worldwide, and they will all need to be torn apart before Sherlock can rest anywhere.

The disguise Molly gave him, along with the last one he left here a couple of years ago, works well when he looks in the mirror, particularly with the slight fluff even _he_ can't bring himself to call stubble lining his cheeks. He leaves confidently enough, although he turns towards the centre of Catford rather than heading towards the station.

The phone, it transpires, is the easiest to acquire. He walks into the first shop he sees and leaves ten minutes later with the most reliable smart-phone available, free internet and e-mail for the year and fifty pounds of credit to spend on texts (_calls, he reminds himself, Sherlock texts so Robert must call_). Clothes and shoes take a little longer, mainly due to Sherlock having always preferred tailored suits and therefore not having much idea of where to start. It takes an hour, but between the closest thing Catford has to a department store and several small charity shops he manages well enough. Glasses and watch – simple. Stationery – insultingly so. He has always loathed shopping for anything at all and the tedium is horrific for his mind. He finds himself analysing everyone he sees, then every_thing_ he sees, and the inability to voice any of it has the potential to drive him mad.

The pain still plaguing him helps. The throb of his knee and shoulder ground him, keep his mind on what it is he's doing and why, and – although he still finds it a trial of the worst sort (_so dull, dull,_ _**dull**_) – the banality of the activity and the chaos of his mind are bearable if they are for _them_.

He passes by the painkillers when he enters the pharmacy, unwilling to take the edge off when the sharp pangs and dull aches are so vital to him. Bleach, two packs of hair-dye (_a rich, honey blond, as far from his true image as he dares and close to the sandy brown he had worn for Mr. Clarke's passport_). Scissors. When he approaches the counter the girl looks him up and down, looks at the dye and claims it will suit him.

"Thanks," he manages, almost choking on the word. The girl (_Sheila, according to her name-tag, although judging by her age Sherlock doubts that to be the truth_) is orange and wearing a bright pink bra under her white shirt; the ensemble clashes unbearably with the highlights in her hair. Not that it is a difficult feat – they are blatantly more yellow than the intended blond.

She beams. "Yeah, honey. You'll look good. The dark hair is kinda dreary. You're cutting it, too?"

"Yes," he smiles, and knows that it is a tight, forced expression but this girl has nothing to do with him and is wasting his time. John would be elbowing him by now, telling him to be nice and that she's only doing her job. "Just a trim, don't want to waste money on going to get it done."

"Save up and go to one of the salons in the city in a month, right? 'S what I do. The dye's on three for two – supposed to end yesterday, but it's telling me on here, so d'you want to grab another box?"

This time, the smile is very nearly real. "Thank you."

He picks up multivitamins and nicotine patches on the way back to the till, and by the time he leaves has spent double what he intended and refuses to consume another half an hour of his life attempting to buy tea-bags. A job for another day, perhaps, however right now he is in pain and irritable and highly likely to draw attention to himself by causing a scene if he has to speak to another grinning sales assistant. Instead he turns towards home, using the short walk to catalogue his purchases and determine packing order. Once he has changed his hair, he needs to leave – before nine tomorrow morning will suffice. There is so much to do and very little time to retain the element of surprise. As soon as they move to new targets, new jobs, the assassins will be on their guard again. If he intends to remove them from the picture, it must be immediate.

He considers his options as he climbs the stairs; weighs the advantages and disadvantages of various ruses as he scatters his purchases on top of his duvet; frustrates himself with projected risks during his hunt for Robert Clarke's paperwork. Planning how exactly to entrap and neutralise three top-level assassins is perhaps not the thing to focus upon whilst trying to cut one's own hair, he discovers. His fingers bear the evidence and his hair ends up a good inch shorter than intended, however the change is almost startling and distracts him entirely. He appears younger than usual, his eyes that bit larger and his cheekbones somehow less pronounced. Once the scruffy mop is bleached and dyed, he dresses in one of the jumpers he found hidden in the first charity shop and heads back to the mirror.

He barely recognises himself. Looking again (_properly __**noticing**__ all the small changes_), he can see the tiredness around his eyes, the slightly unhealthy pallor replacing the porcelain of his complexion, the small loss of weight brought by over a week of illness and lack of care for himself. Sherlock has never been one to worry about the mundane necessities of food and sleep, one reason among many for Lestrade's (_and Mycroft's_) approval of John. He could be an overworked student, an underpaid actor, or perhaps an unappreciated office boy. With the glasses (_slightly green lenses, subtly distorting his eye colour, and wide frames to hide his damned cheekbones a little_) and new jacket (_too much like John's, honestly, however he had been unable to resist even though he recognised it as sentiment_), he will blend in perfectly. There is no true trace of Sherlock Holmes left upon him.

The thought shakes him to his very foundations; he has never held any desire to be anyone but himself, for all the obvious reasons, despite the difficulties he has faced time and again in dealing with and being accepted by his peers. The truth of his 'death' has not been something he has had the time or inclination to consider, but he finds himself suddenly drowning in it – in the knowledge that everything he is, even more than the already acknowledged (_not 'accepted' though; he will never just lie down and accept it_) loss of his reputation and distortion of his work, has been torn from him; his heart, his core, has been burned away just as Moriarty promised at the pool. It is terrifying, worse than standing on that ledge had been, and Sherlock pushes the concept away forcefully. He will live again once this is over. Once he can go home to 221B Baker Street without causing the deaths of the three people he cannot bear to be without. Then he will clear his name (_he knows that Mycroft will facilitate that, as surely as he knows that his brother had something to do with 'Richard Brook' – however unwillingly it was_), get back to work and his experiments, and live.

For the moment, survival will suffice.

ooo

**He begins with** the two living across the road and five doors down from 221B, trusting Lestrade to be putting in a ridiculous number of hours in an attempt to retain his job and, therefore, be in marginally less danger (_went to all this trouble, plus their employer is dead? Unlikely to take any unnecessary risks at this point_). The stockier of them he has no name for (_early forties, gang tattoos, unattached, Birmingham accent with hints of German_), and in all honesty Sherlock finds it hard to care enough to find it out. He walks in through the back door five minutes before David said his colleague is due to return and heads up the stairs without trying to muffle his approach (_an arrival is expected – the attempt at stealth would arouse more suspicion than an assured walk_). He steps up behind him and slices his throat before the man even bothers to turn. He even has the leeway to direct the arterial spatter away from where it could be seen from the room's entrance or windows, and it is the easiest thing in the world, much as he knows John would elbow him and mutter, "A bit not good," should he ever express such a sentiment. This man threatened Mrs. Hudson though, a woman who has treated him with so much more kindness and patience than she ever needed to, and if his removal from the world will make her safer there is really nothing else to be done.

The second man, the man assigned to ending John Watson's life, is more difficult to bring down.

His name is Major Elliot Buckner, of the Third Division. He served in Afghanistan at the same time as John, dishonourably discharged from the British military only two months after the attack that sent John home with a painful hole in his shoulder and a limp his mind fabricated. Buckner is, according to Sherlock's information, an uncommonly nasty piece of work. He is loath to waste what few resources he has, but gives himself a half-dose of Etidocaine to be on the safe side – if this man is as skilled as Sherlock's information suggests he would be a fool not to.

The former Major is also, it would seem, uncommonly clever; Sherlock has arranged the first man's body to look entirely natural, albeit facing away from the door. Buckner, however, still enters the room with a Glock in one hand and a flick-knife in the other and wastes no time in raking the latter across the palm Sherlock instinctively raises.

It stings, his right hand turning slick and red, but it is nothing more than a shallow scratch – no long term damage to worry about. Buckner is larger than Sherlock and obviously fancies his chances at battering and then questioning the thin intruder, moving to strike his temple with the Glock rather than shoot him. Back-step, back-step, block, strike, and the already slick and greasy handle of Sherlock's knife becomes that bit wetter and harder to grip when the blade carves into his opponent's shoulder. It enters the joint at the exact position of John's bullet wound; Sherlock knows it will be painful and the position makes the injury seem almost poetic justice.

It is Buckner's turn to pace backwards, to block and guard as he retreats across the still-clean carpet. Sherlock has lost the advantage of underestimation though, and lacks the military training of the Major. It cannot be more than a minute before his knife is knocked to the floor and he is forced to yank the gun from his jacket; but even that is a desperate move, doing no more than placing them on even, dangerous footing. Wary of a Mexican stand-off, Sherlock goes for the path of greatest surprise and uses his injured hand to slap Buckner across the face, stunning him and obscuring his vision with blood just long enough for him to twirl behind the larger man's left shoulder and ram the barrel of his revolver into the base of his skull. He might lie, later, and say that he hesitated. In the moment there is barely an inhalation before he squeezes the trigger.

Buckner spasms as he falls, his own gun discharging into the floor, and there are shouts from next door. Knowing all that he does about crime scenes, Sherlock's instinct is telling him to clean up, to ensure he has left no clues to his identity or whereabouts, but there is little to nothing he can do in the time he will have before the police arrive and he cannot afford to jeopardise his freedom now. The revolver is old and not one he has ever been seen with, Swiss Army knives are mass-produced… They would have to rely on shoe-prints and fibres, none of which would correlate to the Sherlock Holmes still being alternately reviled and pitied in the papers. Even in the event of Lestrade being assigned to this one (_unlikely, after the mess Donovan and Anderson have made of his reputation at the Met_), there would be nothing to connect him if he takes Buckner's knife. Best to leave, and leave quickly.

He does so the same way he entered the building, sliding on the fake glasses and tugging on a pair of thick, dark gloves to hide his red-streaked hands before he reaches the door. The reminder of the cut, of the blood that could have dripped from his hand to the floor, worries him for a moment. There is so much in the room already though; it would take truly horrendous luck on his part for them to find the one or two drops Sherlock left behind, the smear left on Buckner's face having been obliterated by the bullet's exit (_and if not, if they do test every drop, there should be no records thanks to Mycroft's years of paranoia and – God help him for even relating this to his brother – __**good sense**_). He pushes the thought aside, clenching his fist and keeping his strides even.

He is at the perfect distance when the cars arrive, able to see that Lestrade is absent without drawing attention to himself; DI Dimmock exits the second patrol car instead and offers 221B no more than a cursory glance before heading towards his scene. Sherlock – Robert Clarke – checks his watch twice before turning away and heading for the Underground. The key for his locker is still tucked into his sock, digging in to the sole of his foot and irritating him far more than he expected it to. With any luck, he will make it just in time for the eleven-oh-eight tube and reach the next flat by one. He can wash and change, deal with his hand and perhaps eat, then head out to Lestrade's two-bed terraced house in Hammersmith. It's been years, but he knows the way there like he knows the best places for a proper cup of tea in central Camden. He has, after all, managed to make his way to it once before after a beating, despite being concussed, bloodied and still high. The DI's wife had not been too pleased to find Sherlock passed out on her front step first thing in the morning, but Lestrade had hauled him in and tossed him onto the settee – where he had stayed for almost four days. He'd even made him three fish-finger sandwiches in under an hour in order to satisfy his affected curiosity regarding the differences between brands.

He should be paying more attention, close as he is to the police and a crime scene; still, he can't help reminiscing a little as he heads for Baker Street station. He is so caught up in the memory of Lestrade grumbling away whilst watching the news with him that he is only fifty yards from John, at best, when he notices the blonde hair and military walk.

Sherlock is not proud of the way he panics, hurrying to cross the street and angle his face just enough to hinder recognition. Not that it matters – John's eyes are fixed on the ground, his brow furrowed and shoulders slumped (_slightly thinner, his clothes unironed for all that they appear clean, obviously hasn't slept well in the past few days if the purple and red rings around his eyes are anything to go by, hands fisted in pockets defensively, skin still holding the grey hue Sherlock remembers from after the fall_), and he seems completely oblivious to the people around him. It is very much a man "going through the motions," as the phrase goes – Sherlock cannot look away from him. He stops in the street, turning to watch John head for the flat, their flat, 221B Baker Street, and resolutely ignoring the echoing misery throbbing at the heart of him.

Someone jostles him (_mid-fifties male, retired early due to cancer in his kidneys, nosy_), knocking him towards the kerb in his hurry and complaining, "Don't just stop in the street, mate! Bloody tourist."

He would snap back, if he were Sherlock Holmes. For now he has to turn and walk away, stop himself watching John eventually notice the police cars so close to his home and probably deem it nothing to do with him, and continue to the station. He may have the time to indulge his desire to be so close to his home for a few minutes (_next train is due at eleven-fourteen, then eleven-eighteen_), but he does not have the security. He takes quick strides, pitching his speed to appear in a slight, unremarkable hurry to work or a social meeting, and manages to reach the platform seconds before the delayed eleven-oh-eight departs. His bag bashes against his leg when he rushes to board, drawing a grunt, and three students (_two law, one chemistry, all bunking off their afternoon lectures_) smile his way sympathetically. Robert Clarke grins and shrugs in return, then heads the opposite way down the train to snag a seat, whilst in the privacy of his head Sherlock sneers.

His intention is to change at Moorgate and head for Clapham South, but the lunchtime rush begins early and he can't bring himself to shove his way through the rest of the sardines. He remains seated; there is a basement flat in East Ham he can use for a couple of nights, less than two-hundred yards from the station and very convenient for the tube to Hammersmith. By the time they reach his stop the carriage has emptied out considerably as well, and Sherlock's exit is unhindered. Which is just as well, considering his stomach is beginning to protest its two days of neglect rather viciously; John always complained of how irritable he gets when he is hungry like this.

Perhaps that is why he is so looking forward to the probable violence of the evening.

ooo

… And there we have chapter 2! I hope you enjoyed it, and if you have the time I would love to know what you thought. No flames, please, but con-crit is a wonderful thing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Length:** 3,159 words

**Spoilers:** End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"

**Warnings:** Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs

**A.N.:** Thank you so, so very much – the responses I've received have been absolutely wonderful, and I really appreciate them all. Again, I have to thank the lovely, lovely betas who have so generously offered me their time and expertise – **interjection**, **velveteenkitten**, **patchsassy** and **infinityuphigh**. Thanks to them my sanity is still somewhat intact and you won't have to be distracted by any daft mistakes. Thank you _very_ much!

ooo

SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 3

ooo

**The skies have **opened and it is raining heavily when he leaves a few hours later, dressed in clean jeans, t-shirt, and a thick, green jumper. Buckner's freshly cleaned knife is in his left trouser pocket and his reloaded revolver tucked is inside his jacket. His gloves are clean as well, a pair of chocolate-brown woollen ones he took from Mycroft's office a few years ago during a particularly infantile moment, and he wears them over the fresh bandages and plasters decorating his hands. If the slight bulge in the left is noticeable, no one will be paying enough attention to wonder about it. He is not so willing to take risks with his hair – it has still only been washed twice, and there are a couple of blond marks on the towel currently abandoned over the end of his bed – choosing to don a beanie he had not known he owned (_no label and kinks in the seam; likely hand-knit, therefore a forgotten gift from Mrs. Hudson or previously owned by one of the Network_) in an attempt to keep it dry. Short as they now are, his curls seem to be tucked quite securely away from the downpour.

The train is packed through London, and the streets of Hammersmith are no better. The crowds provide camouflage, which is all well and good; however, they also impede his ability to spot Lestrade's unhappily nondescript car and force him to move with their flow rather than allowing him to find a shadowed corner and wait quietly as he had planned. After an hour and a half Sherlock is forced to admit defeat and ducks through the door of the warm, little pub on the corner, buys a lemonade and parks himself by the window, stripping off his gloves and jacket reluctantly when he realises how horribly close to the radiator he is.

It gets dark. Teatime ticks by. Sherlock buys three more lemonades and fiddles around with his phone, trying to appear occupied. He is close to giving up, heading back to the flat and trying again in the early morning, when the pub door opens to admit a blast of damp, cold air and one Greg Lestrade.

He looks as bad as John, if not worse, and the immediate order of a scotch does not exactly fill Sherlock with joy. Particularly when three beers and another scotch follow it swiftly. By ten thirty the DI is well on the way towards 'plastered' and stumbling as he turns to leave. It should not be a cause for concern, considering Lestrade is a grown man and can handle himself – and his inebriated state is not an issue in itself. Unfortunately Sherlock's seat is close to the door; he had not thought of the possibility (_**probability**__, Lestrade has had problems with drinking for years so the suicide of someone reasonably close to him would of course cause a reaction like this – a careless oversight on Sherlock's part_) of Lestrade coming in for a drink before going home. He had only considered the view from the window and the speed with which he could leave once he saw the car pull up or the house lights switch on, and it is too late now to do anything about his mistake but hope Lestrade fails to recognise him. He continues tapping on his phone, fabricating a message to an annoyed girlfriend until Lestrade's thigh bumps his table and he flinches, glancing up and feigning surprise.

Lestrade's eyes go wide and watery, the older man breathing a hoarse, "Sh'lock?" before he shakes himself, mutters an apology and hurries out into the street. Sherlock is left to sit and ache.

Watching Lestrade make his way up his front steps is what Sherlock wants to do, but he is here for a reason and casts his gaze over the rest of the street instead, his eyes flicking from deep shadow to deeper shadow until they latch on to what he is looking for. The young man is in his mid-twenties, probably blonde although it is difficult to tell with only streetlights, and is watching Lestrade like a hawk. His face is one Sherlock recognises but could never put a name to – new to the force, seen at one or two scenes within the past month, specifically asked to be placed under Lestrade, apparently – and he turns to head through the park once the heavy, wooden door slams closed behind his target.

Sherlock follows him to a perfectly unremarkable townhouse approximately three streets away, rushing up behind him and stunning him with a short, sharp blow to the back of his skull as he shoves them both quickly inside. He reaches back, tugging the door closed behind them without allowing it to slam. Unfortunately, this does not appear to be a beneficial use of his time.

The young man (_a military doctor, just like John but as different in personality as it is possible for a man to be_) is not surprised. Barely five seconds pass, and then an elbow smashes back against Sherlock's ribs, winding him and knocking him back against the solid front door – if not for a dose of the drugs Molly had so kindly provided (_snuck into his system under the pub table when Lestrade appeared to be preparing to leave_) Sherlock knows the pain would have incapacitated him completely. He had known that someone was following him, had been expecting an attack and easily anticipated the blow to his head, allowing him to brace himself and recover markedly faster than Sherlock had hoped. Still, he has not observed everything; his eyes go wide when Sherlock draws the revolver from his jacket and it is clear he never expected a civilian – even a vigilante – to risk carrying what could only be an unlicensed gun in public. He cannot reach his own quickly enough. Sherlock can afford to risk the noise of one shot.

A stomach wound would be preferable, much as it is a nasty, messy way to die. It would allow him time for what are currently vital questions and observation. This man, however, is a professional, and as such would be far too likely to fight back. There is a good chance he would attempt to take Sherlock with him should he be given even the narrowest opportunity (_particularly if he is also given any confirmation of Sherlock's identity – at present still a blessed mystery due to disguise and darkness_). Interrogation would be noisy too; the reality of what he would have to do in order to gain any valuable information would take long enough to draw attention and dangerously limit the options for his escape. A pointless risk, then. Sherlock directs the bullet through the would-be assassin's skull instead, allowing himself a dissatisfied snarl as he does so.

It is loud, and it is still very messy, and he lets out a shout of, "_Fuck_, my toe! _Jesus_ Christ!" to dispel the sudden silence on the other side of the hallway wall.

He is lucky that the area is considered one of the safer places to live. The blare of the neighbour's television restarts after a few moments of Sherlock bashing about and cursing imaginary boxes and injuries, the tension in his shoulders easing when it does so. Time, he has time. Now all he needs are clues.

ooo

**It is three** in the morning when he stumbles down the steps and through his own temporary front door. There was far more in the way of paper and digital records than he had dared to hope for. Unfortunately this also points to there being far more for him to do than he had originally believed. Moriarty's network is either distinctly larger than he had predicted or Lestrade's tail had been rather higher up on its proverbial food chain than he had thought. The latter is overwhelmingly unlikely. The former is… The former is unbearable. Sherlock had known he would miss his home and his life and his _friends_, but he had never thought that it would feel like this. He had assumed it would be similar to missing Mycroft, all those years ago, when he was away at university and Sherlock was left with largely uninterested parents and a mind that could not stop whirring. Instead he is left feeling entirely bereft, alone in ways he never thought he would resent, and he simply wants to go _home_.

He could, he knows. The immediate threat has been removed and Mycroft would probably delight in Sherlock going to him for help in protecting those he has come to care for from any further, similar dangers. He could go home to the flat, tell John he isn't dead after all, not begrudge him the punch Sherlock knows he will deserve despite his good intentions, and solve his usual crimes whilst allowing someone else to handle this behemoth. It would be so, _so_ easy. His feelings are such a mess of desperation and loneliness and pain, such a mess as he has never known before he could happily take months of boredom in exchange for being able to wipe the grief he saw today from Lestrade and John's faces. To have it be over now…

It does not "break his heart," as so many are so fond of saying, to know that it would not truly be over; however, he will confess to a bone-deep sorrow and a resentment that scorches with every breath. The knowledge that if he leaves this here, if he backs away now, they will all spend years under the surveillance of both friend and foe makes the idea intolerable. To condemn them to forever being suspicious, to endlessly checking over their shoulders, to the constant dread of feeling that knife, that bullet… God, he would loathe it. It would drive them all insane within a month.

He ends up on the chair propped in the corner of the living room, so similar to his own and yet with none of its comfort. His elbows are propped on his knees, his head heavy against his palms and his fingers pulling fiercely at his newly blonde hair. The choice he is wrestling with has already been made; he made it almost two weeks ago and asking himself now whether to continue is an exercise in futility. This 'choice' is in fact no choice at all if he still wishes to protect those for whom he was willing to risk a six-storey leap. There had been no guarantee then, for all his hopes and planning, and there is none to be had now either – he simply has to keep going until his return will not bring yet more trouble. When it is all said and done he will be able to go home and _enjoy it_.

He unfolds himself from the chair gingerly, careful of his still-damaged ribs. They are healing, the pain receding faster than expected (_likely to be badly bruised rather than cracked, although he has no present means of checking_). They are still tender though, and between the day's exertions and sitting for almost half an hour with his torso curved as he has, they are beginning to give him a little trouble. A groan tears free with his first step, the sound of his own voice in the silent flat yet another reminder of how desperately he wishes he could have brought John with him. The short walk to the bathroom takes five minutes when it should barely take one – although he is, admittedly, being far more cautious than strictly necessary due to the steady throb of his side. After several aborted attempts he gives up on raising his right arm and washes his hair one-handed, careful not to irritate his cuts or catch the stitches.

That is another problem, one he considers whilst the soap and shampoo are sluiced off him in the rush of hot water from the showerhead. He was incredibly lucky and has, for the most part, been able to take adequate care of his injuries alone. However, those stitches will need to come out at some point and Sherlock doubts that he could do a clean job himself, especially one handed. It is too early to worry about it, he decides; stitches are usually removed in around ten days so John would be fussing by now, but Sherlock knows he can leave them a little longer without there being any serious consequences. Risking a visit to a doctor, even in a walk-in clinic, in London would be inadvisable at the moment, and going to Molly is out of the question. They will need to be removed by the end of next week at the very latest though, and right now Sherlock has no idea whether he will even remain in England that long (_no, he knows that he cannot stay, that he has to press his advantage while he still has one and so will have to leave as soon as possible – certainly no later than two days from now_). The thought of tugging them out of his scalp himself is distasteful and he dreads the thought of the scarring; he will seek help unless absolutely necessary.

So many plans to be made. So damned much to do, his head is whirling with it all, and he doubts that he will sleep tonight. Instead, he packs again – an easy job, thanks to his decision to travel light – and spends three hours studying the materials taken from Hammersmith (_pointless leaving them when a break-in is so entirely obvious – Scotland Yard would be considering theft anyway_) before trying to snatch a couple of hours of sleep. He manages one; the first hour tucked under the thick winter duvet is spent remembering the heavy slump to John's shoulders, the slight-but-there return of his limp, the almost defiant misery written in his expression. It is maddening until he manages to turn his mind to his advantage, drawing on an instance of illness (_a common flu virus, nothing particularly interesting and an unfortunate contaminant to three of his experiments_). He recalls the sensation of John's warm, strong hand smoothing over his forehead and petting his hair; he simply could not bear to delete the memory afterwards, despite knowing that he probably should have – sentiment is, after all, foolish weakness.

ooo

**He moves again** in the morning, leaving East Ham on the eight-forty-five Hammersmith & City train and losing himself in the rush of office workers and students. It is only when he sees himself on the front page of almost every morning paper (_yet again – do these people have no memory at all, or are their own lives simply dull enough that they do not __**care**__ that they read precisely the same things two days ago?_) that he realises his mistake, realises that the crowds could easily become more of a risk than an advantage. He is, fortunately, able to school his expression to reflect the unruffled boredom of the other passengers and none are any the wiser; the man in the papers is dead after all, and the obtuse minds around him would chalk it up to nothing more than odd resemblance even if he was still wearing his wonderful scarf and coat and had never bleached his hair the colour of butter and honey. In his spectacles, tan slacks and jacket he is of no more interest than the next man.

He leaves the train at Moorgate, meaning to wander through the crowds a little before finding a route to Kew Gardens which will not take him too close to Baker Street again, but instead finds himself swept up in the mass rush for the Northern Line towards Edgware. The doors close before he can extricate himself and off he is sent. Not that it matters – he has nowhere to be, can spend his day wherever he ends up as long as his mind is allowed to work in peace. Perhaps a nice cup of tea would be an appropriate goal for the morning – he hasn't had one in over a week, cannot seem to make them the way that John and Mrs. Hudson do. He misses the small comfort terribly. It is this thought that propels him from the moving sardine-tin at Camden Town; there is a small café close to the market he often frequented in the pre-John years where they make a marvellous English cuppa.

As with most of Camden, the place is packed with students and so-called 'alternatives' when he arrives, but there is a tiny corner table still available that he does not hesitate to claim and soon enough things quieten down – the shops are open, the students heading off towards libraries and universities. Sherlock is left with quiet jazz, a pot of tea and a myriad of thoughts and plans. It takes hours to sort through them all, and at one point he is left with no choice but to fish out one of the notebooks and a pen if he wishes to keep hold of his decisions. The notes are short, barely more than a few random letters and numbers on each line, however they keep the chaos in a more coherent order and soon he has something resembling a final strategy.

He will stay the night in Camden, making use of the third of his five 'spares' rather than making the trek to Rickmansworth (_Camden is busier, easier to be lost among the crowd in, than the quieter town on London's outskirts_), and get a last-minute flight out to St. Petersburg tomorrow using Robert Clarke's passport. From there he will have to remember not to follow patterns of any sort with regards to choosing his next targets, and somehow scrape together a little money wherever he stops. His hidden accounts are healthy enough to sustain extended travel if they must, but they are not endless and he will be staying in rather questionable dives more often than he would ever care to otherwise.

Sherlock drinks his way steadily through four pots of tea. At some point the girl on the early shift leaves and an older woman (_early fifties, widow, had a date last night, enjoys knitting and owns the café_) takes over delivering them and periodically halting within range of Sherlock's tiny wooden table to check that all is well. She could be Mrs. Hudson's younger sister in appearance and her voice and gaze take on the same maternal warmth the older woman has always shown him – she must think him terribly odd, the way he looks as though he is torn between contentment and quiet grief each time she addresses him. Eventually it becomes too much and he makes tracks, booking his flight on his phone as he rides the bus. Still, Mrs. Hudson's face refuses to shift from the inside of his eyelids until the slightly stale air of his newest hideaway swallows him.

ooo

Thank you so much for reading my scribbling, and I hope I have yet to disappoint anyone. If you have the time, I'd love to hear what you think so far (no flames please, but con-crit is very much appreciated).


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Length:** 3,973 words**  
>Spoilers:<strong> End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"**  
>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs

**A.N.:** Thank you, again, to everyone who has been so kind as to let me know what they think of my scribbles – I'm still trying to get my head around how positive the response has been, to be honest. Thank you so much!

And, as ever, I must offer a huge thank you to the lovely betas working with me on this. **velveteenkitten**, **interjection**, **patchsassy**, and **infinityuphigh**... Never mind this scribble of mine - I would probably have gone completely mad by now, if I was trying to do this without your many kindnesses.

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 4**

ooo

**Sherlock Holmes is**, typically, not a patient man. He had very nearly forgotten this fact whilst living with John, because after two weeks of living with him John had found that his life was infinitely better when it did not include a cantankerous, whining detective. From then on the doctor had ensured that there was always something around to keep Sherlock occupied off-case. It had not been a foolproof method – the distractions had not always proven diverting or effective by any stretch of the imagination – but there had always been _something_. Alone as he now is Sherlock finds himself floundering mere moments after flopping on to his Camden sofa-bed.

This is why he had fully intended on spending the night in the house up in Rickmansworth. The Camden flat is above an old-fashioned teashop, and is tiny in every way. There are only two rooms including the bathroom, no real space to store the clutters and comforts of home, and a single bookshelf less than three feet long whose bounty has obviously been plundered over the last few years – only three slim paperbacks remain. Two poetry, one novel. None interest him very much. There is a radio tucked at one end of the windowsill that could be used to play… Something, he supposes. Regrettably, it is late afternoon and the single station he can listen to without wanting to permanently deafen himself will be broadcasting an in-depth news hour; he would either be forced to suffer through further tedious speculation regarding himself or be taunted with interesting cases he is allowed exactly _nowhere_ near. It would be torture. No. He has nothing to do but lie still and go over his plans until they are scrolling repeatedly through his head and driving him as mad as Anderson does.

He could still hop back on to the Underground and make the journey to Rickmansworth, he knows; it is only four o'clock and he could lose himself in the crowds as effortlessly as he did this morning. The station there is outside the town though, and there are little old ladies in the area who will be more than just a little inquisitive about a lone, unfamiliar man entering a house they are certain no one currently inhabits. The little redbrick is better left for holing up in for a month than recklessly using for a single night. No matter how much more homely it is or how extensive its library.

He stays where he is, moving only to undress and brush his teeth before trying his best to sleep again. The noise outside helps – he has never found it easy to sleep enclosed in pure silence, having always been close to a busy road and keeping the strangest of hours. Trying to sleep in East Ham in the stillness of pre-dawn had been a terrible idea, although unavoidable at the time; now Sherlock is eased down to oblivious rest by the clatter of cheap cups and friendly candescence of the voices downstairs.

He sleeps well, and dreams of Baker Street.

ooo

**The flight to** St. Petersburg was more expensive than he feels it should have been, much as he can understand why. Over a third of the plane is empty and Sherlock's long frame is squashed into far too short a space. It is doing his leg and ribs no good, he thinks, but there is little he can do now. He certainly cannot afford the upgrade to first class. Eventually he stretches his long limbs out into the aisle, offering a hopefully endearing apology each time the stewardess (_late twenties, misses home, suffers from near-debilitating migraines_) passes him; soon she is passing with much more frequency and Sherlock wishes John were here for her to coo over instead. He, at least, would not find it so annoying. Although, _then_ Sherlock would be annoyed that she was stealing John's attention every ten minutes for the whole damned flight rather than allowing the two men to enjoy their private conversation, and he would undoubtedly end up saying something cutting and then be in John's Bad Books for the following few hours. Suddenly the irritation of being forced to constantly be pleasant to a woman with all the brain-power of a rocking horse does not seem nearly so awful.

Landing at Pulkovo International is a trial all its own due to uncommonly strong winds, and for one frightening moment as the plane lists to the right and the lights flicker out Sherlock cannot help the thought that it would be typical, just typical, if the weather got him before Moriarty's toy soldiers could. Sally and Anderson (perhaps even John and Lestrade as well after the initial resurgence of grief wore off) would probably laugh themselves sick if they were ever to know. On the second try, the pilot has a much improved idea of the conditions and they hit the tarmac with no more than a gentle bump – the damage is done though, and Sherlock watches, unable to help being a little too amused, as the other passengers rush for the exit even before it is opened.

St. Petersburg is a beautiful city, as far as cities go. Unfortunately the hours of daylight are limited even during the summer months, and Sherlock has no leeway for sightseeing. He had seen no reason to book in at a hotel considering how many there must be in such a hub of tourism and trade; considering that he is now caught in the midst of a Russian storm, he is willing to acknowledge his mistake. He had thought to wander the downtown areas a little and find a small bed and breakfast with a room available, but the bitter sleet comes as he makes his way through the harassment of the immigration checks and he flings himself in to a taxi instead, asking with help from a quickly-purchased phrasebook to be taken to the largest Nevsky hotel.

The address he needs is tucked into both his pocket and his brain – a glance at the map left by the businessman dropped off last tells him Moriarty's contacts can be found down a short side-street close to the North bank of the Fontanka – and it matters very little where he stays as long as it is not the same street and within the city limits. He is taken to the Nevsky Central, just over two miles from where he needs to be, and quickly checks in to a comfortable double room. The staff are friendly but not at all intrusive, which is the decider, and he calls down to the desk to book the suite for the rest of the week.

The hotel's one failing is the lack of room service. Sherlock takes almost an hour to fuss and laze his way to the conclusion that he should eat something (_the thought, "John would want him to," settles the matter_) and another twenty minutes to actually leave the warmth and comfort of his temporary home. The kotlety is delicious when he eventually eats it and he finds himself unable to finish the meal without getting close to tears – John would love it, Sherlock is certain he would; the loop of, "I wish John was here," that he has been forcing to the more obscured corner of his mind bursts forth and refuses to be ignored or silenced.

It becomes a constant, conscious thought. Sherlock has not known one of these for years, the last being, "I am not a freak," which ran around the inside of his skull, day-in and day-out, from the age of twelve to three weeks after he met Lestrade. The then-Detective Sergeant finally managed to silence it by unknowingly convincing Sherlock that he did genuinely care about his well-being. It is one of the many disadvantages of a mind without an 'off' switch. The thought will not leave him, Sherlock deduces, unless or until he is able to say a warm greeting to his friend.

He could still go home.

He cannot go home yet.

God, the longing alone will drive him insane.

ooo

**The week Sherlock** spends in St. Petersburg becomes the most miserable of his life. He has the freedom to go out without fear of recognition but fails to take advantage of it. It seems unwise, after he spends three hours reminding himself that John is not beside him – forgetting that, talking to him and pointing out interesting stimuli, does nothing aside from draw attention to himself. The keyring he buys on a whim (_and in the hope that he will have the chance to pass it on to his friend_) is nothing but useless baggage. He leaves the hotel only a handful of times after that debacle in order to walk by Moriarty's 'office'; it transpires that there are three men there constantly and Sherlock quickly makes the decision not to confront them himself. Buckner had been trouble enough – any one of these three could break him between their index finger and thumb. The information he took from Hammersmith combined with his own observations is more than enough to trigger a police raid and multiple trials from which they would be impossibly lucky to emerge unscathed.

Finding an 'honest' police officer in Russia is purported to be a challenge – Sherlock finds it incredibly easy. Just to ensure success, he checks on the officers' higher-ups, compiling a file to be passed on with the damning evidence against Moriarty's representatives. The translation of his notes is an arduous task, taking a full four days, however he is not exactly working to a schedule and the difficulty makes it a welcome distraction. No John, no crimes, no experiments… It is absolutely horrific. He finds himself eating at the oddest of times and far more often than he usually would. Fortunately the hotel's restaurant staff seem to like him and enjoy his attempts to order his meals (_John would call the majority of them snacks_) in Russian, so he continues to haunt the place without compunction.

He books a flight to Barcelona the same day that he makes the decision not to confront Moriarty's representatives personally from the cyber-café in the next street. He is not quite so welcome there, as he has very little patience for the giggling idiots running the place. Although he refrains from using any of the Russian insults he is quickly picking up he makes no secret of his disdain, but the internet access is a draw he cannot resist when the alternative is total, mind-numbing boredom. He visits only a few times and suffers through the indignity of having to drink grainy, industrial coffee rather than touch the dishwater the owners refer to as tea. Regardless of their many failings, he is able to follow a few leads and find what appears to be a decent hotel in Barcelona's Gothic Quarter using their computers.

The temptation to check John's blog is close to excruciating, as is the empty, hollow sensation each time he leaves without doing so. He fails to pin down a reason for the continual denial, which only makes it worse. He eventually settles on the likelihood of the idea just being unbearable, unsatisfactory as the conclusion is, because if he misses the man now he dreads to think of his reaction if faced with solid proof of his life moving on without him. Be it an expression of support or vilification, Sherlock doubts that he would be able to withstand it.

ooo

**If St. Petersburg** was miserable, Barcelona is absolute Hell.

To begin with, the heat is unbearable. The sun scorches the pale skin of his nose and the nape of his neck, his scalp only saved by the same hand-knitted beanie he had appropriated in East London, and he spends the first three days of his stay in constant discomfort until the repeated applications of after-sun lotion finally begin to do their job. After that aggravation, he spends a fortune on sun-cream and uses it religiously; unhappily, it does nothing to bring down his temperature and Sherlock finds himself bathing at least twice a day just to feel a little less vile. Which is the trigger for the second cause of his loathing for what is, to the eyes of most, another pleasing city.

Sherlock has a tendency towards reflection when he bathes. It is why he rarely does so, forgoing the comforts of a long soak for the speed of a shower. He has found previously that he never seems to come off well during these reflective periods, and the most recent are no exception. Sherlock spends at least an hour of every day spent in the sweltering metropolis wracked with self-loathing.

His head fills with it all and will not be forced into order. None are failings, he knows, but that logical, impersonal fact does nothing to lessen the depth of his regrets… His decision to keep John and the others in the dark. The agony and grief written all over John, in Lestrade's wide and alcohol-hazed eyes, screaming from Mrs. Hudson's trembling shoulders. The three men he killed without hesitation or regret – whose deaths he still cannot bring himself to lament, if they mean safety for the people Sherlock cannot bear to lose.

The fact that they are lost to him anyway, with no reprieve in sight.

The desolation of the last takes him a full two days to recover from, a full two days wasted. Caring about anything but what he has lost is an impossible task during those dismal forty-eight hours. He extends his booking without trouble and gets back to work mid-way through the next morning, all too aware of the damage his self-indulgent delay may be causing.

The office is located in a small square at the very heart of the Gothic Quarter frequented by tour groups and local children. There is a tree planted irksomely off-centre in what would have previously been a fountain, the once-beautiful external walls of the buildings are pitted and scarred by gunfire (_the Spanish Civil War; however, this damage would have likely been wrought by foreign troops providing 'aid' to one side or the other_), and overall the scene appears to fit Moriarty's tastes perfectly. As do the staff – those Sherlock observes are far more subtle, of far higher class than the three bruisers in western Russia (_two from the aristocracy, the other three from new-money families, all highly educated and well-read, all_ _with a distinct appreciation for the finer things in life_) and although he has no doubt that the will prove far better equipped to defend themselves than they appear, he is also significantly more confident that he can accomplish what he needs to. If John was to hear that, it would be yet another mark in the, "a bit bad, yes," column. Unfortunately he currently has far too few options and faces far too many risks. He does not have the information required to make any sort of profitable move against the remaining majority of Moriarty's web – he _needs_ access to that office, and he _needs_ as long as possible with the knowledge therein. If he has to employ violent measures to achieve this, then Sherlock refuses to claim false hesitance.

And he doesn't hesitate, although he does at least aim for late afternoon, when only one young lady and an older man are on duty. He simply walks in, the picture of a confused tourist, and as the door slides closed behind him the woman appears from a kitchenette at his right, sympathetic and unguarded. He plays his part well, requests a small drink of water in stilted, upset Spanish, and knocks her unconscious with one well-placed strike to the base of her skull when she turns to fetch a glass. The man is faster on the uptake, his fist brushing along Sherlock's cheekbone, and it takes a precious moment to similarly incapacitate him; he ties them together and, for security, to the corner leg of the heavy oak desk in the lobby, just out of sight of the door.

He has brought his backpack, having emptied it across his hotel bed, and loads it with as many of the most significant files as he can, before rushing to pack as many more as he can carry in one of the storage boxes stacked beside the main filing cabinet. By the time he is ready to leave his hands are riddled with paper cuts and his breathing is heavy with earnestness. The intelligence he now has is enough to bring down the other three Spanish and Portuguese hubs with only minor exertion within the cities themselves. All is well until the unmistakable click of a handgun's safety being released sounds from behind him.

The bullet misses. The gunman (_one of the younger aristocrats he observed leaving earlier, untrained but willing to kill_) is openly surprised by Sherlock's speed; he had not expected him to move with such urgency only because he heard one vaguely metallic warning, and his reaction is slow. Sherlock's is not. The boy (_twenty-five, but as naïve and self-righteous as any teenager_) barely manages to raise his arm by half the required distance before the detective's fingers curl around it and twist, directing the gun towards the pinstripe-clad leg of his assailant. He does not even need to touch the weapon itself – the idiot panics and his fingers spasm, sending a bullet hammering through the flesh of his thigh. A non-fatal wound, as long as he receives medical attention quickly; it will leave him with a severe limp though (_not one to be healed by ridiculous chases after taxis, this; he cannot help the rise of the same sense of satisfaction he felt when he stabbed Buckner_), and the agonised screech ripped from his throat makes it quite clear that the injury definitely _feels_ serious enough.

Sherlock grabs his bounty and runs.

There is no back entrance, no hidden getaway, so he tugs his beanie down and hopes for the best. It must be dinnertime, judging by the emptiness of the square, and he slows to a brisk walk after a few long, shadowed streets; there is no pursuit, so sprinting about like a man with something to hide would only make people more likely to remember him. He makes it back to the hotel without further incident but the feeling of disarray remains with him, dogging him even after his door is closed and locked. Such a thing to go wrong… It is not like Sherlock to miscalculate so badly, so damned disastrously. The worry that he has missed something else takes root too quickly and too deeply for him to do much more than try to ignore it.

There are so many possibilities, so very many worst-case scenarios that he is across the room with his phone clamped in his hand before he even registers his first step. The sensation of his body being ahead of his mind for once stills him momentarily, until the visions of John captured, John _dead_, 221B with its beloved occupants burned to the ground and Lestrade lying broken in the road fill his head again and his fingers fly to get the numbers typed in.

"Hello?" is the faint, familiar answer.

"Are they alright, Molly?" he asks, his voice a study in professionalism whilst his heart beats out a staccato waltz in his chest.

The woman's breathing halts, and the returning question is choked. "Sherlock? Oh, God, it – Are you – You're okay?"

"Robert, Molly," he replies, impatient but unwilling to bark at her after everything she has done, "And please, are they alright?"

"Y-yes, they're fine. I mean, not fine, obviously, they're grieving, but they're okay. Safe. They're all safe, I think," the pathologist manages, stumbling over almost every syllable. "You got a new phone?"

"You have mine?"

"W-well, yes, I got to the roof in time and, well, I didn't think, I mean it didn't feel right to just…" She quietens for a moment before concluding, "It didn't feel right to just throw it away."

"Thank you, again. For everything, Molly," he whispers, still not content with thanking her a mere twice when he was barely conscious, and the note on her receipt surely does not count as a heartfelt expression of gratitude. He is alive because of her intervention – John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are, in part, alive because of her (_he will never know if he would have found the courage to save them without the chance of survival, if she had not helped him plan for all eventualities_), and he could repeat the words for a year without it being enough. "Please hold on to the phone for me. And keep an eye on everyone."

"I will, Sh– Robert."

"Don't call. Unless one of you is dead or in such severe danger that Mycroft can't help you, don't contact me at all. If you must, text me," he instructs, his tone grave. "I may not call you either – I may not be able to risk it. You certainly won't hear from me for months, Molly. Do not contact me. Understood?"

She sounds frightened and impossibly sad when she answers. "I promise. Just, please… Please be careful?"

"I will do my utmost. Thank you. Goodbye, Molly."

"Goodbye, Sher– Robert." He has to close his eyes, remind himself to breathe as he hangs up – that word, "goodbye," is one he never heard from John and the realisation of that fact causes a pain he has no intention of inspecting. It is enough to know that it is raw and jagged, as though something he desperately needed has been ripped away.

No. Now is not the time for introspection or morose wishes. This is what he has always meant when he has deemed sentiment to be a terrible weakness. It debilitates the individual, distracting them and slowing them down, putting them in danger when speed and common sense are all they require to escape any semblance of peril. He cannot afford to be preoccupied right now. He needs to think, needs to act.

He cannot stay at the hotel, that much is obvious. By morning Moriarty's people will have made their decision of whether or not to make a sacrifice of the young man who fired upon him with intent to kill and no warning. If so, they will make quick, light work of clearing the building of anything incriminating, making their call to the authorities by the early hours of the morning at the latest. Sherlock may only have hours until police will be searching for him, calling at every hostel and hotel in the hope of finding a guest matching his description. His tourist ruse was reasonable and effective, however it also drew attention to his already abysmal Spanish accent, and the distinct unlikelihood of a man with skin so pale and easily burnt being a Spanish national – he has to leave tonight. Decision made, he heads for the door. The lobby sells extra bags – he saw and considered them when he arrived, and whilst it would be a risk if he intended to keep the damned thing with him using it to carry the files he will be turning over to the police in less than an hour is a perfectly acceptable solution.

He ends up buying two, of course, when it occurs to him that he is no longer in London, able to ride the Tube bloodstained and toting a very obviously used harpoon, and a tourist carrying a box of files may be met with a little scepticism. He pays for his room at the same time, settling up with an unconcerned smile and the excuse of a cheap, last-minute flight to placate the receptionist.

He is packed and gone within ten minutes.

ooo

Thank you for reading! Fingers crossed you enjoyed this chapter. If you have the time, it would be wonderful if you could let me know what you think - no flames, please, but con-crit is always welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

**Length:** 4,631 words  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs**  
>Status:<strong> Incomplete

**A.N.:** Again, thank you so, so much for so many lovely reviews, favourites and alerts. This is my first multi-chap, and the fact that people are still reading is just fantastic. And that some of you are taking the time to let me know you're enjoying it... Well, I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again. Thank you!

A huge, heartfelt thank you has to go, as ever, to **infinityuphigh**, **velveteenkitten** and **interjection**, the brilliant and endlessly kind betas who have been working with me on this (**patchsassy** has been away for this chapter, and hopefully she is having a lovely break from my crazy).

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 5**

ooo

**Sherlock holds a** great appreciation for the rail network in Spain. Two journeys on the high-speed lines get him from Barcelona to Valladolid in just under three and a half hours, and he considers himself lucky to have made it to the station in time to catch the evening service. Dropping off the files had been an insultingly easy task; the thirty-minute taxi-ride allowed him enough time to pen a short note of explanation, detailing what he expects them to do with this information in his best Spanish. Upon arrival, he had walked straight through the front doors, handed the entire bag to a young duty officer (_third month on the job, smoker, newly single after his proposal to his childhood sweetheart ended with an unexpected response, about to sneak out five minutes early_), and promptly left. He had not been followed – the man had been too bewildered to do much more than nod and turn back towards the security doors leading through to the main offices. If it did occur to him to send anyone after Sherlock then it was long after he had been back in the taxi and out of sight.

He flounders a little in Valladolid's centre, tempted to stay the night until he recalls that his funds are no longer unlimited. It is a shame – the city is historic and uncommonly lovely to him after such a cheerless stay in his last. He also tells himself (_erroneously, and knowingly so_) that he cannot afford another train fare for this leg of his trip. Instead he chooses to rely on the bus services.

The first bus in the correct general direction takes him all the way to Torrelobatón, a comparatively small town over an hour away and through some of the most charming countryside. From there, the night-buses. Seven of them, back to back, carry him from village to town to village until he arrives in Leon at almost half past eight in the morning, having dozed and deduced his night away.

He has decided, during those hours, to remain in Leon rather than making the separate journeys to Vigo and Oviedo. The prospect of another stay in another reasonably cheap hotel, organising the information coherently enough that the idiots in Leon's police force will understand precisely how vital the intelligence he will give them is, does not fill him with anticipation. Forcing the authorities to acknowledge that Moriarty's organisation is a widespread problem may inspire a sense of urgency, or at least a healthy respect for the possible consequences should they fail to do Sherlock's efforts justice. He is unwilling to trade that potential benefit for the same perils he has just escaped. Besides, for all that he has found Spain outside Barcelona to be to his general liking he cannot say that he feels any desire to remain longer than absolutely necessary.

The files are perhaps too heavy to be carrying by hand when he is not yet sure of his right shoulder and his wrist has yet to cease troubling him. He can do little else unless he wishes to waste more money on buses and taxis, though, so he resolves to keep the strain to his left arm as much as possible. It is not long before his hand aches and the ligaments in his wrist and elbow burn; the two-minute breaks he allows the limb by switching the bag to his right doing very little to help decelerate the onset of pain. The soreness reminds him of his head wounds, and of his stitches which surely need to be removed by now. He puts the thought aside; he has no time he is willing to spare right now and no contacts in this part of Spain who do not also have Mycroft on speed-dial, so it will have to wait. He will not risk infection to a healing head-wound by visiting an unregistered quack – he would rather remove the stitches himself.

It takes almost an hour for him to find what he deems to be an acceptable place to stay, but when he does he finds that he has done very well – Mummy had always told him that when travelling it is far more enjoyable to stay in smaller, family-run hostels than any of the larger chains, and as usual she is quite correct. Of course, it is a luxury Sherlock doubts he will often have the leeway to indulge in, all things considered (_smaller means more attention, and a more attentive service means a greater likelihood of being remembered should he be asked after at a later date_). This will be one of the few cities in which he will not be causing a degree of trouble for a certain demographic; he holds no illusions that such a treat would be anything less than highly unwise in closer proximity to any of Moriarty's bolt-holes.

The woman at the desk (_widow, three sons, closing the hostel in the autumn in order to travel herself, bakes breads but very rarely cakes_) is very much like a shorter, more rotund version of Mrs. Hudson. The idea of his landlady ever willingly opening a hostel causes Sherlock to chuckle. She had always been so solid in her insistence that she was not his housekeeper and, much as she had never failed to immediately tidy things up just a little or bring John and himself some tea and biscuits, Sherlock cannot imagine her being the slightest bit willing to tidy around after even the most well-paying of guests – actually, anyone but Sherlock and John would be hard-pressed to earn the level of care she so freely gave the two of them.

Or perhaps he is overestimating his own importance. He knows that he, at least, "drove her 'round the twist," as she was fond of shouting.

He is instructed to call his host Rosa, and is told as she shows him his room that she will happily organise any meals for him as long as he asks in advance. There are only five rooms, one of them still empty even after Sherlock is settled, and Rosa sees no need to cook for her guests unless she knows they will be around to appreciate it. This is excellent reasoning as far as Sherlock is concerned, and he asks in Spanish (_keeping it somewhat broken and tourist-level regardless of his true aptitude_) to be included in her head-count for dinner. He briefly mentions a long journey and growing fatigue as his reasons for remaining in his room for the rest of the day, hoping to intercept any suspicions arising from his decision to stay inside rather than explore the city. Rosa beams, babbling something about paella and ushering him back through his door, glancing around, before dashing off for a moment. She returns with a small radio, which she thrusts in to his hands before disappearing for good, closing the door behind her with a wave.

The radio is heavy, an antique unless he is very much mistaken, but produces a beautiful sound once he manages to find a classical station to enjoy. With the blinds twisted to afford him privacy the room is warm and welcoming, the strains of violin and piano soothing tired nerves and bringing him comfort he had not realised he was craving even as it reminds him far too much of evenings spent with John. The older man had always been highly appreciative of Sherlock's more sincere sessions with the violin, claiming that he played wonderfully and several times thanking him for an impromptu evening concert. Now Sherlock cannot help wondering whether he will throw his beloved instrument out in a fit of pique or grief, or perhaps give it away simply because it serves no further purpose. He almost hopes he does – better for it to become a child's toy than be reduced to nothing more than a dusty reminder, painful to even look towards.

Sherlock's intention had been to work, to get as much done as possible on the day he may spend indoors without arousing any suspicion; the rest of his week will be spent wasting hours exploring some of the city in order to remain unobtrusive in memory, perhaps taking one or two files with him to a library or quiet, civilised café. He will have to now, because sitting for a moment, listening to Vivaldi and remembering John, remembering his home, has steadily turned into over an hour of laying curled on his side, wrapping himself in a mixture of warmth, sound and memory. Honestly, he is not entirely certain which wounds he is lamenting – perhaps this depression rises from the pain he is causing the people he cares about, or perhaps he is mourning his own losses, much as he was and is grudgingly willing to accept them under the circumstances. Still, the loss of everything he knows, everyone he loves… It is the proverbial 'bitter pill.'

He had told himself that he would not cry, beyond those tears on the rooftop.

ooo

**He mourns and** drifts the day away until just after three, when there is a soft knock at his door and a quiet, heavily accented call of, "Señor Clarke?"

He rises, stifling a groan at the throbbing of his ribs and lets her in.

"Rosa." He should ask in Spanish, he knows he should, but he is emotionally drained and more than morose enough for his less sociable side to shine through. "Can I help you?"

She smiles, patting his hand as she offers a plate of small sandwiches and sweets, not bothering to verbalise the instruction to eat some lunch but pressing the cool china to his fingers until he raises both hands and takes it from her. Then she goes again, giving him the same wave as earlier just before the dark wood obscures her completely.

Sherlock does not want to eat, has no interest in even the concept of food at present, but no sooner does he abandon the plate on the dresser than he can hear John telling him on so many occasions that he needs to eat, that Sherlock worries him by starving himself, that he has to take care of himself. The last thought strikes both a chord and a blow – he has no choice but to take care of himself now, after all. It is certainly not a new concept considering that he survived the years before John and Lestrade; sadly, the intervening years of having someone there, having someone close who will worry when he fails to sleep and skips too many meals (_someone who expresses that worry in ways other than having him tracked and invading his home_), have changed him in very vital, very troublesome ways.

It began with Lestrade; the man had completely disregarded procedure when he first took Sherlock under his wing. As soon as Sherlock had his first taste of casework, of the adrenaline, the thrill (_and, undeniably, the awe he had been met with by the older man_), he had promptly become as addicted to it as he ever had been to the cocaine, and outright refused to be shut out. Without knowing Lestrade, he would never have felt any need to become involved with John, with any potential flatmate – he had never craved companionship before knowing the DI, and the sentimental longing infected him the way any plague would. And then John…

Dear, _dear_ John.

John had become everything at once (_possibly due to a lack of 'others' to fill the many roles left empty, or perhaps because he is __**John**__ and entirely unique_), his presence constant and consistently welcome. He became such an integral fixture in Sherlock's life that now, without him, it is as though there is a hole in his world, 'something missing.' A phrase he used to scorn, that. "It's as though something's missing." It has always driven him mad, filling him with scorn at how obvious it all is (_'something missing,' of course there is something missing, it is your friend/sister/lover/father – do not be so ridiculous as to employ such a vague statement when the answer is so pathetically apparent_) and irritation at the speaker's wilful ignorance (_so unreasonable – people die, people leave, and by their thirties no individual can honestly claim they are not fully aware of this fact_). In these moments, though, nibbling at sweet pastries and delicately cut sandwiches despite not being the least bit hungry, he finds that he understands completely. He nearly sympathises.

The very idea drives him to his feet, inspires him to complete his work as expediently as possible; if he is at the point of sympathising with imbeciles he obviously needs his life back to its usual order immediately.

He will ignore the thought that the eighteen months spent at 221B with John cannot be considered his life's 'usual order' – not when seen as a percentage of the whole.

The work is not particularly taxing (_the instruction and financiering of crimes are not nearly as interesting as the crimes themselves, and the records of the few that Moriarty's cells have committed themselves are detailed and leave him with nothing to __**solve**_) and nowhere near the rush of The Work, which is a shame for all that Sherlock had expected it. An adequate distraction would have been a boon today. On the other hand, it would also likely have meant that Sherlock's miscalculations regarding the duration of his self-appointed 'mission' were even greater than he had believed after Hammersmith, and the idea chills him. It is only three hours until the case against the Vigo cell is near-complete, the file requiring only minor research before he can consider it both damning and comprehensive. Oviedo's is not at all far behind. A few intelligent, subtle questions and some minor deciphering of the ways of Spanish internet connections and restrictions will take neither a great deal of effort nor a truly substantial amount of time. It should take four days at the most if he applies himself. Then, to Portugal, and from there…

Where to go from there? He is not exactly lacking in options, not after yesterday. As well as the multiple files full of information regarding his Spanish and Portuguese operations, it has transpired that a handful of them contain a rather extensive amount of correspondence between what can only be several of Moriarty's offices and individual agents. None provide enough information to bring about a conviction or even an appropriate amount of police interest. They do, however, give him addresses to work with, plus aliases and firms that he could observe and manipulate – even infiltrate, should it become necessary.

Not that any plan is likely to remain unchanged. Chaos wrought by himself or others will interfere soon enough, but a framework would at least help him to keep his ideas in order. He cannot afford to keep anything more than the most basic, obscurely coded records and a general strategy that he can memorise will, he is sure, prove invaluable.

John has always found his ability to disregard the passage of time whilst thinking both fascinating and exasperating to the extreme. The room is darkening steadily, now that he comes back to his 'transport' – it must be gone seven at the very least. Turning the volume down on Rosa's radio he can hear the tell-tale sounds of crockery and pans somewhere downstairs, signalling only a handful of minutes left until he will be called for dinner. Sherlock wishes he had longer; he is not the least bit hungry, especially after eating a lunch he did not want, and after trying to ignore the stray, morose thoughts rattling around in his head all day he cannot lay claim to more than shreds of patience. Perhaps if he feigns sleep he would be able to avoid the evening meal with all its social trappings, but Sherlock really does not want to antagonise his hostess – not when she could yet prove herself to be invaluable. Her knowledge of the city and assistance may save his life should anything go wrong (_unlikely – asking questions should cause no problems as long as they are worded correctly, and even John has admitted that his acting skills are impressive on the rare occasions he chooses to use them_). They are incredibly valuable commodities, and he knows better than to jeopardise his chances of receiving either. He requested dinner, therefore he will attend dinner – and eat as much of what is on his plate as possible without inflicting that vile, uncomfortably stuffed feeling upon himself.

The shout drifts up in perfect synchronicity with Sherlock's nod of affirmation. He braces himself to be caught in a stampede as he leaves his room but – by grace or luck – only one other man is making his way towards the stairs (_late forties, ambulance driver from New Zealand, repeat visitor, keen hiker_). Rather than attempting to force an uncomfortable conversation the brunette offers Sherlock a nod and a cordial smile without breaking his stride. It is reassuring, and Sherlock follows him down to the large kitchen-diner feeling markedly more at ease. Three heaped plates of paella sit around the table waiting for them whilst Rosa herself dashes from cupboard to cupboard, retrieving glasses and a large jug of iced-water. As Robert Clarke he reluctantly thinks of offering to help, distancing himself from the reputation he knows he holds as Sherlock Holmes and getting himself in to the woman's 'Good Books' in one mostly-painless move; however, no sooner does he open his mouth than the man at his side reaches out his finger, tapping his elbow to get his attention and offering a sympathetic but amused shake of his head before taking a seat.

It confuses Sherlock a little, although he'd never admit it (_John always offered and it was appreciated every time_), when Rosa turns and beams proudly at the seated man. She spots Sherlock hovering uncertainly by the door a moment later and immediately tuts, moving to herd him in to the second chair. He had assumed he would take the third with the elderly lady seated between her two appreciative guests but instead finds himself hemmed in on either side, the New Zealander grinning at the confusion he cannot be bothered to conceal.

"You're new," he whispers quickly and conspiratorially, leaning close. "She sees me three times a year, has for nearly nine now, but as a new boy you're going to be fussed over until she decides you're alright. David Shepherd, by the way. 'Shep.'"

"Robert Clarke." It's low and a little stiff so he shifts just a little in his seat, easily giving the impression of being the shy, uncomfortable sort.

"Nice to meet you, Rob," is the response, and Sherlock fights the urge to insist upon 'Robert.' Shep offers another grin at his apparent acceptance of the nickname and it is bright and so, so warm; it forcibly reminds him of John's brilliant smiles and laughter, of Lestrade's beaming face and easy, open demeanour the occasional times they ran into one another 'off the clock.' "Two rules to remember. Never touch anything in the kitchen – it's the Signora's domain – and never argue with the lady. She'll go for you with the spatula," he laughs, obviously caught in a fond memory, and Rosa flushes as she finally sits down, glaring across at Shep in the fond way Mrs. Hudson always did Sherlock. All he can think is that the next hour is going to be torture.

"Robert, you eat only what you want," Rosa tells him, looking away from Shep just long enough to smile affectionately at him. "No making you-self – "

"'Yourself,' Rosa."

" – ill for an empty plate." As soon as he replies with a hesitant nod she fixes Shep with a fiercer version of her earlier glower, and the clock fixed above the sink barely counts twenty seconds before the banter begins.

If he could leave, he would. Each time he thinks he might be able to do so without coming across as rude, however, Rosa or Shep looks his way and asks whether he is enjoying the food, if he would like a little more water, what his opinion on the current subject is. There is a single moment where he thinks he can, only to find that the words get lost on their way off his tongue and he enquires as to the best sights in Leon. The pain it causes may be akin to slow immolation, but the conversation is so similar to ones held in the safety of 221B that his heart can no sooner force him to leave than it can tear its own way from within his chest. He remains at the table, steadily eroding his mountain of paella until two thirds are gone and he dares not risk another mouthful, delicious as it is.

After almost two hours they send him off to bed. He sleeps through the night, but it is restless; when he wakes, the light covers are tangled about his long limbs and he finds himself entirely exhausted.

ooo

**Visiting the Pulchra** Leonina, Leon's gothic cathedral, is certainly not Sherlock's idea of applying himself to the task at hand. It makes for a more believable cover though, and the roundabout route he chooses for the walk there and back allows him to observe a great deal. The next day he works his way through the Casa de los Botines, MUSAC and a handful of the many cafés between the two. None offer the proper cup of tea he has been craving, but it is a sacrifice he would willingly make again for the gossip he overhears.

It has been over a fortnight since the San Juan and San Pedro celebrations, and tongues are still wagging. That propensity for gossip makes Sherlock decidedly more cautious and could present a problem should anything go wrong, but he is grateful for it when it provides so many hints towards the names and links he needs. Leon's late-June celebrations are somewhat legendary according to the locals, drawing crowds from as far away as Saragossa and Cordova when the weather is predicted to be fair, and talking about them even a month after they come to a close is quite common – particularly when there is as much havoc as there was this year.

It is common knowledge that gangs use the week-long festival as a means of making contact and forming arrangements with one another, as they would in any convenient city, but it is not usually mentioned. This year, however, there had been trouble between some of the visitors from the Northern coastlines – there have been feuds for several months after one group apparently tried to cheat another that they had been trading drugs with, Sherlock is informed in whispers, and when members met during one of the street performances near the river a fight had broken out. The numbers of people involved, he is told, ranges from ten or eleven to thirty-five. Although the results were mostly minor injuries and property damage – no by-standers were hurt, everyone says with just a little awe – two men had to be rushed to hospital after fighting over a knife.

It is all far more interesting to those telling the stories than to Sherlock himself, much as the fact that one group came from Oviedo is a slight boon to him. That is, until they mention the men in smart suits who had waded into the centre of the chaos and put an end to it all before anything worse could occur.

There are photographs, a handful of which he is invited to keep, as he seems so engrossed, and one waiter is delighted to tell Sherlock about his encounter with the tallest of the five. For the most part it is irrelevant, an account of one short conversation regarding the quality of the street acts and musicians booked this year, but it does contain a few details of interest. The man had been from Oviedo, in Leon with some friends and looking forward to seeing a few more who had come across from the Vigo and Pontevedra area, and had worked for an agency he would neither name nor describe. Combined with the stories of how very quickly the fighting broke up when he and his 'friends' stepped in, it is patently obvious to Sherlock who he was. The organisation's agents are not nearly as well versed in the arts of subtlety and misdirection as Moriarty himself had been.

He had chosen the longer route by the river earlier, but heading back to the hostel he takes no such deviations. There is too much work to be done – or rather, there is work to be done _already_. He had thought working from here would make things more difficult, even with the vast amounts of information he has on Oviedo and Vigo, and had braced himself for the disappointment and frustration of having to extend his stay after yesterday had proven near-fruitless (_hadn't been asking the right questions __**or**__ the right people, and he cannot help resenting himself a little for yet another unnecessary delay_). This progress, coming to him almost easily compared to the slowness of St. Petersburg and the fiasco that was Barcelona, is not something he can bring himself to sit on for even a moment. He sprints the final couple of streets, unable and unwilling to stop himself, and crashes headlong into Shep upon entering the hostel.

The New Zealander catches hold of him quickly, steadying him with a laugh. "Christ, Rob, where's the fire?" he chuckles after a moment, seeing that Sherlock's face is open and excited rather than panicked.

"I just… Old friend. He called, said he might be extending his stay in Portugal for a few days, and would I like to meet up if I have the time," he pants, hoping the grin on his face is lacking the slightly manic edge he feels to his current delight. He's got them. Two offices in just three days. Shep is blind – the 'fire' is right in front of him. "Rosa mentioned a computer when I arrived, said I could borrow it if I wanted or needed…"

"No worries, mate – she's at the shops, but I know where it is."

The twenty minutes Shep spends helping Sherlock to organise everything are genuinely painful, and if he could he would shout at the man to leave – probably using the most insulting phrasing possible to assuage some of the burning impatience and aggravation in his stomach. Right now, however, Sherlock is Robert Clarke and cannot afford to lose his temper. The man is trying to help (_John said he should show more appreciation for the help others offer him, even when it is superfluous and an annoyance_) and by mentioning Coimbra as his destination he at least has his tickets purchased. It also transpires that Shep has visited the city himself, albeit a few years ago now, and can offer a couple of hints as to the better sights; he also mentions a few areas Sherlock, as a tourist, should avoid, which are far more worthy of note.

Rosa returns before Sherlock's thin thread of patience can snap, and Shep leaves him to check his emails in favour of fresh local gossip. He skips dinner and sleep; by morning he has the three names he has been missing and there is a sheaf of printouts from his foray into the realm of hacking that he smuggles up to his room before Rosa is due to wake.

It is a terrible thought, and he curses himself the moment it occurs to him, but if this luck holds then he may even be home for Christmas.

ooo

Thank you for reading - I hope you're still enjoying the story! If you have the time, it would mean the world to me if you could let me know what you think (this is particularly true if you have this scribble of mine on story alert, as it's chapter 5 so it would be wonderful to know whether you're still enjoying it). No flames please, but con-crit is a wonderful thing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Length:** 6,438 words  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs  
><strong>Status:<strong> Incomplete

**A.N.:** Well, as a treat this chapter is a fair bit longer than usual – consider it my fervent "THANK YOU!" to you all for all the wonderful responses on both LJ and FFn. They really do mean the world to me.

As ever, thanks must go the wonderfully kind (and exceptionally skilled) betas who have been so generous with their time. **interjection**, **velveteenkitten**, and **infinityuphigh**… Thank you so, so much.

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 6**

ooo

**With finding information** regarding his targets being so easy, Sherlock is packed and ready to leave a day early. Leon is a beautiful city, for all that it is distinctly lacking in anywhere that serves an even _vaguely_ passable cup of tea, but he is eager to move on. Not that Portugal is likely to be any better, but the odd days he can shave from this 'trip' of his are immensely valuable. Each one is another day he will spend at home rather than in a foreign hotel. He cannot bring himself to delay his departure. He has kept a close eye on the news, and either the Catalan cell have decided not to sacrifice their colleague to bring down their attacker, or they moved too slowly to do so and the police have disregarded Sherlock in favour of acting on the information he provided. Whichever is true, the end result is that he has nothing to fear from Spain's authorities at present and can pass through border control unhindered. It is not something he expects to last; as soon as he completes the files, he delivers them to Leon's police station in the same way he left the ones in Barcelona.

If he were anyone but Sherlock Holmes he would take his time on this last walk back to the hostel, perhaps alter his route a little to wander by his favourite sights before he leaves, but he has somewhere to be and far too many reasons for getting there with all possible haste. He has loathed pretending to be a tourist, wasting so many hours wandering and buying trinkets so that he had something to show Rosa when pressed for details of his day.

The trinkets will remain hidden in his room until he is long gone (_one keyring, he will take one keyring for John, to match the one from St. Petersburg and prove he has been thinking of him the whole time_) and his photographs will be deleted as soon as he is aboard the second train. If found on his person they would provide a clear map of his movements, which would be more than enough proof of means for them to place 'Robert Clarke' under suspicion as the one disassembling Moriarty's little empire. Even just the keyrings, hidden deep within his single suitcase, are a ridiculous risk to be taking. He knows each time he so much as thinks of them that he should leave the one bought at MUSAC with the rest of his purchases and throw the mistake from St. Petersburg in the nearest gutter, but those thoughts are followed each time by a vision of John as he was the last time Sherlock saw him. He had seemed so disconsolate, and it is very likely that he will never be able to completely forget that emotion even after Sherlock is able to return home. Sherlock _needs_ to do this, to have some way of corroborating his claims that he has been constantly thinking of John, constantly missing him as much as John was – and, knowing John, _is_ and _will_ for a good while yet – missing Sherlock.

He may not be particularly excellent at comprehending the intricacies of emotions, nor always able to tell when something is "a bit Not Good." Despite this, though, he is not so blind to it all that he is ignorant of the accusations which will be levelled his way by the likes of Sally and Anderson. He knows they will declare him callous and uncaring, that it was nothing for him to up and abandon the few people who care about him in exchange for the promise of 'excitement' and 'adventure' (_it is neither, regardless of the fact that it should be_). Mrs. Hudson will not believe it for a moment, stalwart as she is, and as long as he returns safely and with an apology Sherlock knows he will be forgiven with a hug and an offer of tea and biscuits. Lestrade… He trusts Lestrade to understand when he explains, just as he knows that the DI trusted _Sherlock_ to understand when the older man explained why he arrested him, had he not been denied the chance. Lestrade trusted Sherlock to understand that he did it because he was positive the consulting detective would be proven innocent (_the set of his jaw and twitch of his hand, the angle at which he held his badge, his loosened shirt collar and his efforts to keep John out of it all_). Sherlock will afford him the same quiet faith.

John, on the other hand, is an unknown. He has always been an unknown, forever surprising Sherlock for good or ill. The detective has all the facts, can read John's experiences with as little effort as he would expend to read a road-sign, but the doctor's reactions are another matter altogether. He wants to believe that John will forgive him, will know better than to believe him uncaring or unconcerned. However, Sherlock has seen time and again that grief twists people in harsh ways. Besides, Sherlock and John's entire lives have been intertwined for the past year and a half, and John lacks the support system Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade have. Whereas the other two have multiple shoulders to lean or cry upon, John's trusted brothers in arms are either in Afghanistan or too busy readjusting to civilian life to be able to give John the support he needs. This leaves him almost entirely isolated aside from friends and acquaintances of both himself and Sherlock (_with the minor additions of Harry and Clara, neither of whom he would ever choose to go to_). No, Sherlock would not blame the older man for doubting the sincerity of his apologies and explanations.

Which is why he packs the keyrings beneath his socks, and does not try to tell himself that he will refrain from buying more.

Rosa and Shep are kind, if interfering, people, leaving him feeling unusually guilty when he makes false promises to remain in touch (_the telephone number he leaves is for a small residential complex in Kent; the email simply does not exist_) and to visit again when he can. He has told similar lies to multitudes of unwanted acquaintances before, feeling nothing but satisfaction and perhaps a little scorn upon confirmation of their belief, and a precise explanation for his abrupt, unhappy onset of conscience eludes him. All of a sudden there are too many options, ranging from how very good to him the pair have been during a time of personal crisis to the remorse being a projection of his emotions regarding John and the others, and he cannot seem to grasp a definitive answer. It is incredibly frustrating to deem it a mixture of 'all the above,' as it were, and write any further musing off as a bad job, but it is all he _can_ do. He certainly cannot afford to be distracted by the puzzle of his own emotions when he has such a large-scale task on his hands, with so very little room for hesitations or missteps.

Sherlock smiles and waves as he walks through the small reception room, observing all the social niceties that John tried to drill into him. They delay him briefly, although he leaves as quickly as possible and without a backwards glance. He is already running late – extricating himself from Rosa's rather overzealous embrace took longer than expected and his train is not going to wait for him. He should have left earlier, but between arguing with himself one final time regarding the keyrings and his general distaste for waiting around in stations unnecessarily he has failed to leave himself any margin for error.

Sherlock soon finds himself sprinting for the platform, barely managing to leap aboard the train bound for Monção before the door hisses closed behind him. It is not crowded, but there are no empty pairs of seats remaining; he turns, smirk in place, to joke that he his sure John will not mind a different travelling companion for a short while only to find himself struggling not to let out a viciously bitter curse when he registers the empty space beside him (_too used to running with the other man at his side – his mind is yielding to habit_).

He spends the first leg of the journey beside a half-asleep businessman (_head of accounts for a Portuguese construction firm, late twenties, gay, enjoys classical literature more than his lover's company_), and silently fumes at himself until the women gossiping three rows down (_housewives and mothers, old friends usually in contact through e-mail, studied nursing together_) become loud and obnoxious enough to distract him. By the end of the three-hour journey it is only his determination to keep a low profile that prevents him from rising and giving them a venomous piece of his mind. The cutting lecture on exactly why their fellow passengers would rather permanently deafen themselves than suffer another second of their shrieks and laughter is bubbling in Sherlock's throat. He has a headache, the man beside him is wincing each time any of them opens her mouth, and the student at the table beside theirs has increased the volume of the music roaring from her headphones to the point that Sherlock could sing along if he so desired.

When the train comes to a final halt he is two-thirds through an internal recitation of '_John Watson's Top Fifty Excuses for Standing Up His Girlfriends in Favour of Danger With Sherlock_,' and he cannot escape quickly enough. Although his Spanish is far more academic than conversational, he knows more than enough slang to be painfully aware of how far past the point of mere insinuation the women's conversation went. It is one of those rare instances in which he finds himself wishing for the ignorance of the masses. His first instinct is, in fact, to delete the entire journey from his memory as soon as he is afforded a moment of peace in Coimbra, but unfortunately he needs to be more careful than that. If he is being followed, or if he should meet one of his fellow passengers again at the wrong moment, his memory of this awful journey will be necessary to maintaining his cover as a simple tourist.

When he goes home, after he has told John his stories in all their minutiae, he will delete every shred of the idiocy he knows will be cluttering his brain. He will take a great deal of satisfaction in clearing it all, every second of unnecessary annoyance and overheard conversations.

What he will not do, tempting as it may be, is erase his newfound intimacy with the sensations of bone-deep loneliness and grief – of the desperate longing for a specific person's company to which he had believed himself to be immune to for so long. Perhaps he had been, for the most part, until he effectively hauled John into his home and life on a whim and a combination of vague curiosity and the awareness of his seclusion planted by his almost-friendship with Lestrade. Perhaps John has altered him even more than Sherlock himself had thought.

Ever since their first case together the former army doctor has been playing the roles of both his catalyst and his compass, so Sherlock could claim no surprise if John is behind the new, fragile heart as his core. Not that he has ever been as "heartless" as so many seem to believe. Nevertheless, his old one of the pre-John years was a heart built of gears and wires and fibreglass tubing; it acknowledged another's absence with wistfulness and idle wonderings at the very most. This new one of flesh and flame… It aches and it twists, screaming its discontent in every shade of worry, grief and guilt.

Worst of all, however, is how damned poetic the bloody thing is making him.

ooo

**He is lucky** enough not to be one of those randomly pulled aside to have their passports checked. Security is predictably tight so close to the border but not quite as much as it could be, and he is waved past the four officers and their sniffer-dog with open impatience (_the eldest is formerly an engineer in Portugal's Armed Forces, discharged due to a combination of age, diabetes and a poorly-set tibia_). The train to Coimbra is waiting at the platform, an older but far less crowded and therefore infinitely more comfortable version of the one he has just left. Sherlock is quick to find the quietest spot possible and settles in, pulling out his file and his minimalist notes with the intention of spending the next few hours revisiting his knowledge and refining his plans. There is a short delay though, and by the time they are pulling away from Caldas station he is already finished with his reading and has discovered that his plans need nothing more than a little tightening up. It is incredibly tempting to be excessive in his contingencies and safety measures after the debacle of Barcelona, but Sherlock knows better than to waste the time and effort. "The best laid plans…" as John sometimes used to mutter.

He knows that he has done well in covering as many potential difficulties as he has. Further planning will do little more than hinder him until he has the chance to assess the situation more closely, much as it pains him to put away his work, and he resigns himself to watching the scenery fly past. The countryside is too similar to that of Spain to hold his attention for very long; the Atlantic, on the other hand, is a wonderful sight. The tracks take them along the coast for a full thirty-five minutes before beginning the gradual curve inland and Sherlock spends every second he can gazing out across the horizon. It is pathetically sentimental, but the first time he saw this particular body of water he was bundled up in Lestrade's car, three months after meeting the man and during his first attempt at quitting cocaine. Mycroft had decided that London presented his little brother with far too many temptations, near-forcing Lestrade to take him to Cornwall for a fortnight.

Any other day, the DI would probably have made an ill-advised attempt at disobedience or outright rebellion, but as he had returned home early from visiting family to find his wife cheating on him with a builder from Amersham he had been almost glad to be distracted by the Holmes brothers. Mycroft had arranged extra time off work for him, paid for the trip in its entirety, and handed over a generous amount of spending money, after which Sherlock may have had complaints but Lestrade had not cared to argue. It had ended up being strangely pleasant, despite Sherlock's initial fury and the expected later bouts of sickness, and although they certainly were not _close_ by the time they returned to London there had been some sort of bond there; a feeling of attachment which has prevented either man from pulling away from the other over the years.

An attachment from which the friendship that resulted in Lestrade's life being threatened grew.

The thought is a bitter one, and Sherlock is glad that the sea is long behind him when it makes itself known.

ooo

**The final hour** of the journey is both uneventful and uninspiring. Sherlock's fellow passengers (_four tourists from the Netherlands, eight Portuguese businessmen returning from a conference, a history student and a banker_) go from quiet to silent, some of them sleeping and the remainder respecting that. By the time Coimbra rises around them, only Sherlock and three others are still awake and his watch reports it to be gone ten. He would prefer to wander immediately, as there is always a vast wealth of information to be had on a drunken Friday night, but the business hotel's check-in closes in less than an hour. Whilst lugging his one remaining suitcase with him from bar to bar would not be too much of a physical strain he is very much opposed to drawing any more attention than necessary. He can wait just a little longer.

The taxi barely makes it in time; the boy behind the counter scowls through the process of retrieving and activating Sherlock's key-card. His room is bland, the same cheap accommodation easily found in every city he has ever known, and it is not at all difficult for him to part from it as soon as his bags are stashed away. He joins the roiling masses on the streets, allowing himself to be swept up by an already impaired group as they pass – he smiles and laughs, and not one man realises that he does not belong with them. They meander from pub to club to bar to pub, buying his drinks as though he has been there all night and eventually causing Sherlock to take pity on them, buying one round before disappearing on to the next bar alone. He seriously doubts they will remember him in the morning, never mind miss him now, but by repaying them he will at least be recalled fondly if they do.

Although he had asked for only juices and one virgin margarita, he is infuriated to find unwelcome warmth spreading through his veins and turning his thoughts ever so slightly muzzy. He doubts the mistake was made intentionally and must admit that he should have been paying closer attention to his drinks rather than ignoring them in favour of keeping up his happy, tipsy façade – not to mention measuring the mood of the bar, the percentages of locals versus tourists, and the quality of the liquors on offer. Still, it is a struggle not to head back there and cause a scene. Not that it would help, but Sherlock has been nursing a bad temper since his first train ride of this long day-and-night, and the excuse presented to indulge it would be appealing even without the alcohol loosening his restraint. He keeps walking with difficulty, reminding himself with every step that he cannot afford any trouble.

The burn of the alcohol in Sherlock's system fades as the sky brightens from navy to cobalt, and the sun is rising before most of the clubs close. Even when they finally do, turfing out the last party-goers with practised efficiency at gone four in the morning, some of the bars remain open – the ones Sherlock noticed the majority of the locals entering, as luck would have it, and he ducks into the closest without hesitation. It is dark, smoky and perfection, a haven from the noise and tackiness of the rest of the area. A few of the older patrons raise their eyebrows in his direction, but as soon as he orders a large whisky he is written off as 'one of them' and almost completely ignored.

Sherlock settles down on a barstool, and watches. The range of clientele here is wide and varied (_entirely male though, so it must be a well-known local watering hole with a distinct reputation_), with shady characters and definite gang members scattered almost innocuously between young professionals, labourers and alcoholics of every age and background. In the corner, however, is the man Sherlock finds to be of the most interest.

To most, he would be entirely unremarkable. He is of average weight, with a mid-range phone beside him. His attire and brogues inexpensive but smart and well kept, and his hair is neat but trimmed plainly – he is nondescript in every way possible, and that is what draws Sherlock's attention. People who have absolutely nothing remarkable or distinguishing about them are anomalies, almost impossibilities, and invariably turn out to be the ones trying to hide the biggest secrets. It is overwhelmingly likely that this man, who blends so seamlessly into the background, is one of Moriarty's agents.

There is little Sherlock can do right now though, aside from making a mental note of everyone the thirty (_thirty-two?_) year old speaks to whilst smuggling as much of his whisky as possible into the plant pot beside his right elbow. By seven in the morning he has imbibed a mouthful of the deep amber liquor at the very most – impressive even by his standards when it is out of five glasses and he is seated right under the barman's nose. His acting is impeccable as well, made easier by the lack of a friend or accomplice to interact with, and when he stumbles his way into the street thirteen minutes after his mark no one pays any more attention to him than to offer a genial smile or nod.

ooo

**The visit to** his hotel room is a flying one, barely long enough for him to shower and change before he is back under the morning sun, already sweltering even in a thin t-shirt and light, cotton trousers. The blonde dye has finally stopped running when he washes his hair, at least; he is able to leave his short curls to dry naturally and enjoy the relief offered by the light breeze against his wet scalp and nape. Said relief lasts ten minutes at the very most, but Sherlock finds the heat is that little bit easier to cope with now that he has been eased into it rather than plunged.

Coimbra is as lovely as Leon, he finds, with equally beautiful historic architecture, equally interesting and accommodating locals, and equally terrible tea. The _Delta_ café he ends up in after a long search is obviously part of a chain but stocks only rooibos, which is far from his favourite in the first place but has never been so awful as it is here. He could have coffee, he knows – he likes the stuff, so it is not as though it would be a hardship – but he wants tea. More specifically he wants John's excellent tea, with one of Mrs Hudson's little shortbread fingers at its side. If he cannot have exactly that, he still wants the closest substitute.

Perhaps he will go to Paris next. He remembers little of the holiday the Holmes' took there as a family – he had, after all, been only six at the time. What he does remember of the city is favourable, though. He knows that he will find a half-decent range of teas in most cafés, and the office there is likely to hold plenty of useful information. It suits what small parody of a plan he has, too – lull the cells outside the continent into what semblance of a 'false sense of security' a criminal cell _can_ be lulled by working through the vast majority within Europe, then quietly gather reconnaissance for a month or so before dealing with as many other offices as possible within as short a time as can be arranged. It is not likely to be easy or nearly as effective as one might hope, but it is the best he can manage alone.

ooo

**By mid-afternoon it** is all too clear that today is not a day for progress – he has walked by the office as often as he dares for at least the next couple of days, even risking notice by loitering in front of a quaint glassware shop across the street for a full fifteen minutes. All he has discovered is that there is a tolerable, family-run café on the corner with one table in the window that has a perfect view of the office entrance. It is precious little reward for many hours of pounding the pavements; Sherlock is hard-pressed not to allow his resentment to shine through when he is told by yet another smiling shop assistant that they don't know what the offices are for and are sorry they cannot be of more help, but they do not think anyone would mind him taking a few photos. At four o'clock he gives up and does so, managing by luck or providence to catch two smirking, suited men as they pass one of the thin gaps between the blinds.

Neither appears again, so it is unlikely they noticed him, but he continues to play the part of a tourist anyway, smiling admiringly up at the large, renaissance-style building one more time before casually walking away. His immediate intention is to go straight back to the hotel and attempt to make a little more sense of the correspondence. The alternative would be to take a nice, cool shower after being out in Portugal's painfully hot afternoon air before spending a couple of hours trying to make a few more deductions from his memory of the man at the bar. He will be there again tonight, most likely; it would be nice if Sherlock could be as well. The more quickly he can fill the final few gaps in his file on this office, the sooner he can escape this god-forsaken heat and head somewhere more comfortable. He has to work on his deductions first though; it will be far more advantageous to have some leverage or, as John would probably phrase it, 'shock-factor' insight at his disposal before going back to the bar and risking being noticed or interacted with.

He cannot have moved more than thirty yards before he hears the distinct sounds of a heavy door opening and closing behind him. The only such door in the street is the one barring the entrance to Moriarty's office. Of course, it _could_ be nothing to do with him; it could be the end of a shift or someone making a quick trip to pick up more paper or milk for the coffees. It could, but it never would be.

Sherlock is being followed.

He does not turn, tempting as it may be, and keeps his stride at an even, comfortable and easy pace. The steps behind him fall into a matching rhythm so naturally he cannot help but be a touch impressed. They head towards the more populated streets, less than three-hundred meters between them if Sherlock's calculations are correct, and he sees his pursuer just once in the polished glass of a storefront. The one consolation he can find is that he is not the man from the bar. He has the same purposely-bland air about him though, much as it is now sharpened by suspicion and a touch of violence. There is no doubt in Sherlock's mind as to his intentions, and the desire to run claws at his insides.

Not that he would have any safe haven to escape to. Sherlock cannot, must not, return to the hotel with this threat in tow. Whatever it takes, he will have to lose him, because if his pursuer finds out where he is staying Sherlock knows there will be three more men picking the locks and rooting through his luggage within the hour. Then they will put together all the clues as to who Robert Clarke really is and kill him, or perhaps alert the rest of the organisation, kill John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade out of spite, and _then_ kill him. No, if it reaches the point where Sherlock has no choice but to retire, he will do so to another hotel or a 'flophouse' of one disgustingly familiar sort or another (_he had never seen reason to be ashamed of the nights spent in those dives, nor of the drugs he would flood his brain with whilst there, until John and the disappointed, forlorn way his face twisted. Now Sherlock can bear neither, the temptation and shame trying very hard to rip him in two_). He desperately hopes it will not come to that.

Sherlock has been followed, _tailed_ like this on numerous occasions. This is the first time in over six years where he does not have some form of backup though, and the thought is more than a little disconcerting. He is loath to admit it, even to himself, but he is afraid – terrified. He is fierce in his assertions to himself that he need not worry or fear (_regardless of how exposed and isolated he feels without the knowledge that John is barely a street behind and Lestrade only a text away_), but no reassurances or ridiculous platitudes can extract the panic hindering his movements and thought processes. It is all he can do to keep walking. The fact that his hands are steady when he raises the camera to photograph one or ten of the pleasant, elegant buildings they are passing becomes a point of pride (_not to mention another oddly comforting – if unhelpfully distracting – reminder of John_).

It is louder now, and despite Moriarty's agent still being very much _there_ Sherlock cannot hear his steps above the racket. He is jostled from the left of the pavement to the right and back again – in London he would have glared imperiously and refused, in all his tall, angular, _bony_ glory, to shift even an inch, but here and now it makes a wonderful excuse for attempts at evasion. He picks up the pace. The pavement makes his sore feet ache, and he darts between his fellow pedestrians as quickly as he dares. He soon finds himself biting the inside of his cheek to prevent any snarls escaping as he is knocked about. He tastes the metallic tang of his blood but keeps a happy, curious smile on his face and his gaze casually interested in the people and sights surrounding him even as he fights the instinct to sprint. Another wide window affords him nothing but disappointment – his pursuer is still there and, although he has failed to gain any ground and the seeds of doubt Sherlock has been hoping for are beginning to take root, the fact remains that he is also not giving up.

Neither is Sherlock. He may not know this city the way he does London, but he knows enough. Besides, his pursuer probably is not such a thorough expert on Coimbra either (_not the way Sherlock is on __**his**__ city, __**the**__ city, the sights of which he misses every day_), so his disadvantage is not even close to being as disproportionate as it could have been.

He dismisses the predictable urge to dash down a side street. He is aiming to lose his new friend, not destroy any plausible deniability he may yet have managed to retain – if he turns down an unfamiliar alleyway alone he will definitely not be sticking to his current persona, only making himself appear more suspicious. Either he has to lose him in the crowds or bore him until he leaves freely. All things considered, he deems himself far more likely to be successful with the latter. All he needs is a first stop.

Tourist tat? Too obvious. Museum? Costly, and with it being late afternoon also highly unlikely. A visit to one of the many chapels would be the best way to start, but there are none within an acceptable radius so that will have to wait. He dares not risk another café, in case they have been watching longer than he is inclined to assume, and after two more streets he ends up pausing for a moment to take a few photos of the prettier buildings and try his damnedest to formulate a plan. He wishes he had at least brought the Swiss Army knife out with him.

The shop is a first-floor job, the door rather filthy and set slightly back between a bank and what might be a clothes shop (_or a fancy-dress shop, or a trap for the seriously mentally impaired – if John were here they would be sniggering by now_). The Portuguese for "books" may or may not be above it, he cannot quite see through the film of dirt on the sign, but in the current circumstances he also cannot claim to be particularly concerned. He hurries over, allowing his intrigue to show on his face, and tests the doorknob. He can feel the delighted grin pulling at his lips when there is a click and the grimy wood and glass swing back to admit him. It is cleaner inside than one might expect; the carpet is worn but still a vibrant red, leading the way up the stairs. Sherlock hardly takes a breath before rushing inside, bounding up to the tiny bookshop.

There is barely space to walk between the coral reefs of books crowding the room. Old, new, varying languages and covering every subject… He cannot hold back the awed, delighted "oh!" which swells in his throat. He is not an avid reader – it is an idle hobby used to stave off boredom unless he is hunting for specific information, and he has been known to delete the less useful or enjoyable books from his memory. Nevertheless, he can still appreciate such a vast and varied selection. Many of them are beautiful, bound in leather or fabric with their titles and authors tooled into the spines in artistic, gilded fonts.

The footsteps on the stairs behind him remind him of his purpose here, and he gravitates steadily around the room towards one of the larger stacks, hoping to swing around it and leave before his pursuer can pick up on what his plan is. It is unlikely to work, all things considered, however it is one of the few possibilities that will not incriminate him should things go wrong. That is the best he can hope for at present.

Ten minutes later he is back at street-level, hugging close to the wall as he tries not to rush his exit; there are no steps behind him just yet. Cramming himself into the tightest of corners was an annoyance, but it left his 'tail' feeling secure in the knowledge that he would be unable to leave without notice – a security undermined by the fact that all it took was one familiar title drawing the other man's eye for a moment too long to allow Sherlock the opportunity to slip by. It will not last, obviously, a fact which causes Sherlock to feel that foolish, amateur urge to race for the nearest corner burning through his stomach and joints as he walks down the street. Unfortunately he is no longer within range to hear the warning of footsteps, and to have pulled this off only to be seen dashing away, trying to get out of sight, would be as irritating as it could prove deadly. He keeps to a brisk walk instead, pulling out his phone to check the time once he is a good distance from the door.

The downside of this act is that he has nowhere to go, and until he can ascertain whether he is still being followed he needs to appear as though he does. Rushing out of the bookshop is easily explained, but without any evidence to support his story – a friend to meet, an event to get to, a reservation to make – he will soon be a figure of suspicion again. As a tourist he can buy time by appearing to get lost, but he will need _something_.

He catches sight of a statue just beyond an alley on his right as he strides by and backs up a step to take a second look. He has no idea who it is, but it is a landmark he can fake knowing and a final, blessed excuse to dart down one of the many thin side streets he has been passing with frustrated longing. He moves down it at a jog, glad of the excuse to speed up a little as well – it is reasonable enough that no tourist would want to take a shadowed alleyway at a wander, and Sherlock is happy to exploit that fact. He does not pause at the end, turning to the left and stepping back to lean against the wall and listen for a full three minutes.

No footsteps. No thud of rubber soles on the flagstones, no heavy breaths or rustles of fabric. Whoever he is, and whether Sherlock has retained his air of innocence or not, he is no longer following him. Or rather, he is no longer able to do so effectively – Sherlock does not doubt that the man will be trying to locate him for some hours yet. He may even still be at the bookshop, unaware that his mark has left his corner.

There is no time for Sherlock to rest on his laurels; he still has to put some distance between himself and his pursuer. He takes four more alleys at a run, choosing at random and laying out a jagged path with no logic behind it to be used against him. He does, however, try to aim for the general direction of the hotel, and can see the blinds he had drawn before leaving to keep the room private and cool when he hears the engine thundering his way. He is half way across the street. The tactic is an easy one to see through (_frighten the pedestrian; they hurry to step onto the pavement and pay less attention to their footing than they should as they move to escape peril_), but that does not change the fact that he instinctively lurches forwards with little grace, very nearly twisting his ankle when his throbbing foot slips slightly beneath him.

The tyres squeal and the large, undoubtedly expensive car halts directly behind him. Sherlock can just make out the line of the roof and the uppermost few inches of the tinted windows reflected in the glass panel of a door to his left. It is with a resigned sigh that he hears the car door swing open behind him; multiple hands grab him (_two men – one soldier and one civilian, the latter an office worker of some sort from a reasonably high-born background and __**very**__ familiar_), and he is dragged backwards into the relative dark of the car's spacious back seat. Or, rather, back _seating area_ – the seats themselves are arranged in a small 'U' around the central space Sherlock's long limbs are currently occupying.

"I must admit, you very nearly managed to fool even me, Sherlock," comes the familiar, aristocratic voice. Then, quieter, and with far more emotion than he is used to hearing from the older man: "You do enjoy making me worry."

He twists as best he can against the soldier's restraining hand, and addresses his brother. "If you will insist upon handing out my life story to known criminals, Mycroft, you deserve to be left out of the loop."

ooo

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I'm sorry to be leaving you there for this week. If you have the time, I would love to hear what you thought. No flames please, but con-crit is very welcome. Thanks again!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Length:** 4,329 words  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs**  
>Status:<strong> Incomplete

**A.N.: **Oh my goodness. The responses to that last chapter have been incredible. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed or added this to their alerts or favourites, and thank you for letting me live after that ending! Just about everyone has said that they're eager to see what will happen now, so I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.

As ever, another massive thank you has to go to the wonderful betas who have saved me from myself yet again - **patchsassy**, **infinityuphigh** and **velveteenkitten** (the lovely **interjection**had to take a break for this chapter, but it looks like she'll be back shortly). Thank you so much for being so generous with your time and expertise.

There is an extra treat with this chapter, thanks to the amazing **carolstime**. This scribble of mine has cover art! It can be found here:** http : / / i41. photobucket. com/albums /e257 /Miri-chan / SurvivalCoverArtcarolstime. png  
><strong>Just remove the spaces to view it.

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 7**

ooo

**Sherlock would never** have expected the sight of Mycroft to have as great an effect on him as it does. As soon as his brother's face enters his field of vision, it becomes all Sherlock can see. The unknown soldier (_usually unnecessary and therefore absent – Mycroft is worried_) fades into the black leather of the seats, the already muffled sounds of their car and the rest of the early rush-hour traffic going completely unnoticed. For a full minute and a half, Sherlock simply watches Mycroft breathe. The relief, the thundering of the blood in his veins, the terrible, razor-sharp joy… His instinctive reaction is reminiscent of those he experienced upon seeing his brother during school and university holidays, only so much _more_. Sherlock's mouth is dry and there is a painful lump in his throat; all he wants to do, confronted with this as the icing on a long and stressful day, is lean his head forward that handful of inches to rest against those slate-clad knees and have Mycroft pet his head. The elder Holmes' task forces and government officials can take care of everything else, just this once.

He loathes himself for the thought even as it makes itself known, and resolutely seats himself as far from Mycroft as possible out of a combination of spite and remorse. The soldier (_plain-clothes, but with the unmistakable air of a T.A. Major_) appears impressed – if a little perturbed – but Mycroft's face twists unpleasantly for a second before he frowns.

"I am, as I have told Doctor Watson, sorry for the trouble wrought by my actions," he states, face and shoulders as stiff as his voice. "It was never my inten– "

"Oh, just shut up," Sherlock snaps. "You didn't mean to facilitate the plans of a maniac. Yes. Fine. I have no interest in any explanations, Mycroft. Just tell me when I can see John and the others – now that your people are taking over I would very much like to go home." His sneer fades as he speaks, until he can feel a tiny smile hovering at his lips on the last word.

Mycroft's lips, in contrast, have gone thin and white, his jaw clenched and muscles tight. For a moment, Sherlock fails to understand; he has been far more dismissive and certainly much ruder to the older man on a regular basis, so such a noticeable and, by Mycroft's standards, strong reaction is surely unwarranted. It is when the pallor lasts several seconds too long that realisation hits him, not so much like a ton of bricks as several large, steel-framed buildings collapsing inwards directly onto his head.

"No."

"Sherlock – "

"No, Mycroft. No. You do not come here with members of Her Majesty's damn _secret service_ only to tell me to keep up the good work."

"You know why you have to stay, brother, or you would've come to me rather than leave London," Mycroft retorts, and there is anger simmering beneath the even tone. "Unless, of course, you have decided to disregard either the privacy or survival of your friends."

Sherlock bares his teeth. "You have no right to mock me, Mycroft. Do _try_ to remember that you made this situation possible in the first place." The soldier jerks (_not shock, but a desire to defend his employer_) and Sherlock shifts his gaze to him. "He mentioned that part then… To pre-empt any remarks I could make, I imagine. I doubt he told you all of it though. Did he tell you that he provided the 'consulting criminal' with his little brother's entire life story before simply letting him go?" he sing-songs, before looking back to his brother. "You didn't even _warn_ me." He means for it to come out full of righteous fury and vitriol, but somewhere along the way it is lost and reformed, and the words leave his mouth with a palpable edge of torment. The oddest thing is that he cannot find it in himself to be ashamed of his short show of weakness.

He braces himself for a suitably snide retort, possibly even an invocation of the incident with The Woman, but none is forthcoming. Mycroft's demeanour is not the one Sherlock is accustomed to when dealing with his brother, the one of long-suffering exasperation and patronising worry. His lips are thin and white once more, his forehead carefully free of a frown, whereas his fingers tap and twitch uncontrollably over the handle of his umbrella. It is his eyes that Sherlock is mesmerised by, though: they are hurt and guilty, still meeting Sherlock's but lacking their usual haughtiness. There is an irrational urge to apologise rising in his chest that Sherlock refuses to indulge. He may be taken aback by Mycroft's reaction, he may even pity him a little, but that does not mean he has forgotten how entirely _deserving_ of his harsh words and resentment the older man is.

The Major shifts again, this time fuelled by awkwardness and uncertainty, and both Holmes brothers master themselves hurriedly. It is a conversation they need to have, certainly, but neither harbours the desire to do so with an audience. Sherlock would usually relish the idea of Mycroft being forced to shuck his pride, but not necessarily in public (_they are brothers, at the end of it all, and this is far too personal_). Besides, it would not be only Mycroft's soul on display, so for now he is willing to 'talk shop.' They are obviously heading for a secure location (_Sherlock can hear his bags sliding around in the boot with each corner the car takes_), so the wait for privacy will not be a long one.

"I cannot force you to remain away from London, Sherlock," Mycroft begins, his voice still very slightly subdued, "but I would remind you that you had sound reasons for leaving. Things will move much more swiftly – and smoothly – with the addition of your skills in the field."

"I'm aware of all that," he replies, feeling the ridiculous, irrational hope from earlier flicker mockingly. He presses it down, smothering it in reality. Had he not been so shocked by Mycroft's arrival, he would have recognised it immediately the first time for the false hope it is; he cannot leave this work unfinished, for all their sakes. "The terms are best discussed in private."

It is an acquiescence, for all its arrogance, and the tight line of Mycroft's shoulders relaxes just enough for Sherlock to catch the improvement. "Of course. We can't be more than five minutes away."

"From where?"

"I've rented a café for the evening – they don't usually allow it, but an old friend of mine has certain contacts," Mycroft informs him, quietly smug. Sherlock can almost feel the bow in his hands, the strings beneath his fingers… He settles for humming, only to be startled to a stop by a derisive snort from the Major.

His confusion must show. "I can see what you meant, sir," the soldier smirks, addressing his brother. "Eriksson would've tossed him out on his arse by now."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "I must admit, Major, it's quite a surprise to hear you being so familiar with my brother. He's usually a stickler for propriety."

"Major Lucas has been working with me on-and-off for over four years, Sherlock," Mycroft sighs, "so I hardly feel the need for unnecessary formality at this point. Think of him as my 'John,' without quite so much sentiment in our association."

Sensation rockets through Sherlock's cells – his eyes widen and his breath hitches, and he cannot decide whether he is furious that Mycroft dared mention the doctor so flippantly (_dared to compare this dull man to __**John**_) or if he wants to let the misery take him. The emotions are only made worse by the eyes on him: Mycroft's calculating and more than just a little concerned, the Major's rapidly filling with compassion. "John," he starts, his voice cracking, "John has never called me 'sir' – nor would I ever want him to."

There is a long, pregnant pause. Mycroft breaks it. "Quite."

The Major remains silent, although everything about him screams sympathy. Finally, he shakes his head (_unsettled by whatever he has seen in Sherlock's face_), and mutters, "I don't think it's quite the same. I'm straight."

"So is John," Sherlock responds, the defence almost automatic when it registers that John is not there to deliver his usual groan and frustrated retort. It is not helped by the short, quiet laugh from Mycroft.

He is saved from the impending sniping between himself and his brother by their arrival at the café. Well, almost – the car cannot quite reach the entrance, blocked by a fountain at the centre of the pleasant square, so Major Lucas and their driver (_non-military, trained as a bodyguard immediately out of school, father of two, rugby fan_) usher the two Holmes brothers the short distance to relative safety.

"Café Santa Cruz," the Major whispers to him, and Sherlock can understand his awe. This is certainly not what he was expecting.

The café is a former chapel with ceilings of high, vaulted stone, lined with the original 'ribs'; several of the windows are elegant, vivid stained glass; every table is topped with marble. It is a far cry from Mycroft's usual choices of factories and warehouses. The older man has always chosen the more comfortable sites for his conversations with Sherlock, but this is unprecedented. He allows himself a brief glance Mycroft's way. For once the older man is not trying to keep the upper hand against him – Sherlock can see the awkwardness, the self-consciousness and the silent plea for patience as effortlessly as if his brother was holding a placard. He can remember the last time Mycroft looked so vulnerable. Sherlock had been ten years old.

He maintains his silence.

It takes mere minutes for the room to be cleared, and even Mycroft's assistant, who had been carefully preparing two coffees at the well-designed bar, exits without a word. Sherlock takes his mug without hesitation as she passes by, and does not bother to complain that he would rather have tea. He knows that Mycroft has seen his desire for the beverage in his reaction to the scent of the coffee, and he knows why he was given the bitter drink anyway. No matter how the tea had turned out, even if it had been prepared exactly the way John always does it, Sherlock would have considered it sub-standard because it was not made _by_ whom he wishes.

"How are they?" The inquiry is past his lips before he can hold it in check. It has been days since he spoke to Molly, and Sherlock is well-acquainted with how much things can change within a few short days.

"Well enough. Everyone is alive, although their emotional states leave much to be desired." Mycroft tilts his head, before continuing in a bland tone, "As much as I am not at all _surprised_, I have to say that I am a little disappointed, Sherlock."

"Why?" It is not really a question.

"You know why. Your priority should have been to question how. How did I know you survived, how did I find you…" Mycroft sighs, condescension colouring the short huff of air. "If I can put the pieces together – "

"But you didn't," Sherlock interrupts, tone just shy of gleeful. "You suspected, but it was up to Molly to confirm it for you. Less than a week ago, so just after I called from – "

"Barcelona, yes." His brother looks as though he has swallowed a lemon. "You haven't been subtle though, have you? Killing those assassins in London, the total fiasco of Barcelona, then getting yourself followed – "

"St. Petersburg and Leon went perfectly," he argues, throat tight. He has, perhaps, not managed as well as he should have – certainly not as well as he would have liked to – but the last thing he will do is accept his brother's criticism. "And I hope I don't have to remind you again of your – "

"My part in this, yes, thank you, I know!" Mycroft barks, and Sherlock takes a step back. The older man spins, stepping away from him in favour of sinking into one of the leather armchairs. His shoulders continue down after the rest of him halts, until Mycroft is slumped in his seat, his suit rumpled by his uncharacteristically poor posture. "The point has been made, little brother – repeatedly, at volume, and in more than one voice."

"John came to see you?" Sherlock does not know why that surprises him.

"He had to be removed from my office by force." Sherlock cannot help but be proud; Mycroft simply looks exhausted. "He also made a point to inform your Detective Inspector of my mistakes. Your attempt to convince him to leave things well alone has rather backfired, by the way; the good doctor has already taken steps to begin clearing your name, with Lestrade's assistance."

"Are they likely to be targeted again for it?" he asks, keeping his tone unaffected. Molly will let him know should anything arise, and whilst Mycroft himself is here in Portugal, Sherlock knows better than to doubt that he has men monitoring their movements and safety. There is no reason for him to be concerned.

Mycroft gives him a long, considering look before he eventually offers a response. "No, I shouldn't expect so." Sherlock studiously _does not_ allow himself a relieved sigh. "Their attempts are lacking in finesse. Aside from that fortunate fact, Moriarty would have expected John to do so at the very least. He is so very loyal, Sherlock – it makes him quite lamentably predictable where you're concerned."

The last may have sent warmth spiralling through his chest, but Sherlock cannot let it lie. "John isn't – "

"When your safety or 'honour' are in question, he is. His actions are expected. It's very possible that your exoneration has been part of Moriarty's plan since the beginning. I'm sure he would have found the inevitable backlash against the police and media highly entertaining."

The thought is one that has occurred to Sherlock more than once these past weeks. He has dismissed it every time. "No. His plan was to 'burn' me – to destroy me, which necessitates the permanent smearing of my work and reputation. His willingness to shoot himself in order to guarantee that is proof enough of the focus of his intentions. Besides, several DIs at the Yard have worked with me; the inquiries I'm sure are currently ongoing would have provided any additional entertainment he desired." He cannot help the way his mind immediately brings forth an image of Lestrade seated before a committee instead of commanding his team or at a press conference for the media vultures. His chest feels tight, a pressure on his shoulders driving him to take the seat across from his brother.

Sherlock rarely feels guilty when it is clear others believe he should, so the rise of it now, without legitimate reason, is disturbing. Mycroft watches with all the interest of a scientist for a particularly violent and unusual chemical reaction as Sherlock struggles not to fidget, not bothering to try to hide his intrigue at the sight of his little brother (possibly the only individual whose mind he can feel akin to, if his feelings on the subject are anything like Sherlock's) fighting to quell emotion with logic. The sensation of being observed in a moment of weakness has never been one Sherlock enjoys, but when it is to the depth his brother can see it is outright hateful.

"What is it that you want me to do?" Sherlock asks, as much for the distraction as due to the necessity of the information.

Mycroft's expression twists just a little. "It isn't just what I want you to do, Sherlock, and you know that. If you will work with us then we can act more quickly and decisively; you would not be doing anything you wouldn't still have to do without my people."

"Your people specifically?"

"Yes." Mycroft puffs up a little with the confirmation. "I've been placed in charge of the entire operation, as it's both covert and diplomatic. Not that I will be leaving London often, you understand. I can't drop everything else, particularly with the current situation in Syria."

Sherlock resists the urge to ask. "You expect me to follow your orders."

"I _expect_ you to take the actions that we both know will provide the most beneficial results at any given time, Sherlock," is the hardened response. "I _expect_ you to respect my opinion and my expertise whilever you are out in the field. I _expect_ you to believe me when I tell you that I will do everything in my power to help you to return to Baker Street, and I _expect_ you to show the appropriate consideration for that fact," he finishes at a near shout, making Sherlock's fingers twitch.

He has no desire to abide by these instructions; however, he has long become accustomed to ignoring emotion in favour of sense – and it is very much the former driving his urge to refuse.

"I had intended to deal with the Paris office next," he informs Mycroft after a minute of silence. "Of course, that would have been dependant upon my success here and, considering I've been followed already, I would say that achieving that will be a struggle. It would be for the best if your men were to deal with this one, I think."

"Yes, I should think so. We'll move you on to another target," Mycroft muses. "Not Paris. There are some meetings in Brussels over the next few weeks that are of significant importance to those 'in the know' – you'll go there."

The wording and the tone have him bristling. "Do not order me, Mycroft. I'm working with you, not for you."

"Of course." There is something supercilious, something quietly mocking, about his brother's accompanying smile.

"If this meeting is as important as you claim, there may be agents from several offices moving to assist those already there; I doubt I will be able to monitor all of them alone. Give me two men."

"You can have three," Mycroft nods, "and I will keep another on retainer just in case of any… Any _unexpected_ developments. Do you have any preferences?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Why would I know enough about your staff to have even one?"

"For the specific delight of being able to tell me so, when you know how tight security is," Mycroft tells him, a repressed snap to his tone.

"Well, yes," Sherlock smirks. "Douglas, I think, and Whykes. They have at least half a brain each. I think I could bear them. I'll allow you to select the third."

"I will refrain from asking how you know about Whykes. I'll give you Vicker as well. Amerson will be on stand-by and, if necessary, you can call him directly rather than going through me." Mycroft gives the clock a glance before continuing, "You will leave tomorrow, on the fourth flight of the morning."

"Mmm. Will you be providing my accommodation for tonight, as it is thanks to you that I no longer have any?" he asks, although he cannot claim any disappointment or regret. The hotel had been miserable in every possible way, even prior to Sherlock being followed, not to mention that it would be compromised by now anyway (_business hotel close to the station – Moriarty's men would have contacts there who would happily identify him once furnished with a description_); staying somewhere else will not be a hardship.

"With me, yes. I have a suite not far from here."

"And yet you brought me here for our 'meeting,'" Sherlock half-complains, derisive.

"I felt it would be a nice little venue for our happy reunion, and they do a wonderful cup of coffee." Mycroft is flippant but cannot hide his distress and relief from his brother, now that Sherlock is calm enough to truly _look_. The remembered grief… Sherlock had not considered Mycroft's reaction, too consumed by his 'mission' and his own feelings. It would seem, however, that his brother was not as unaffected as he has been trying to appear (_the signs of insomnia, the weight gain, the nervousness evident when he chose his suit, the cufflinks Sherlock gave him the last Christmas before Mummy passed away that he has always hated_).

"Given up on another diet?" The query is about as subtle as a flying mallet. Not that Sherlock is aiming for subtlety.

The silence is heavy, loaded – Mycroft suddenly cannot meet his eyes. "Not for long."

It is all the confirmation Sherlock needs. His brother has been comfort eating, something he has avoided for many years now, because of guilt and grief. It is a rare thing for a Holmes brother to feel truly profound sympathy for his fellow, but Sherlock finds that he cannot quite help it in this case. He could almost be coerced into apologising for not informing Mycroft of his plans prior to their grand enactment, except… "I had neither the time nor the secure leeway to let you know."

"So I understand." The words are clipped, the emotions in Mycroft's voice close to overflowing. The anger there has Sherlock's hackles rising, urging him to remind the older man once again about his pivotal role in Moriarty's plans; he knows why it is there though, knows that Mycroft's fury is, in the main, directed towards himself and the deceased chessmaster rather than Sherlock. The small amount reserved for him is primarily for the way in which his observation skills are laying Mycroft's soul bare, and Sherlock can sympathise. That disquieting feeling, the fact that they can strip one another to the very bone, is as much a reason for Sherlock's wish for limited contact as his general dislike (_and resentment, after everything his dear big brother allowed and did_) and sometimes-one-sided-sometimes-reciprocated sense of rivalry with him. He will let this one go.

Neither offers the words 'I missed you,' not even when Mycroft brushes a hand against Sherlock's arm to direct him towards the door (_unnecessary: looking for discreet reassurance_), but the air itself feels thick with the sentiment.

ooo

**There are no** further discussions, no verbal outpourings of emotion. After a ten-minute journey they dine together in Mycroft's extravagant suite, Sherlock sequestered away in the ensuite re-dyeing his hair when room service attends them. They sit in adjacent armchairs for almost five hours, yet there are hardly eight sentences spoken between them; neither brother feels any need to instigate conversation. Both have seen far too much in the other already today; both have felt far too exposed to risk anything more.

The bed is enormous. Sherlock calculates it to be approximately fifteen meters square – five wide and three long – and he is unsurprised when he is directed to share it. Booking a twin room or a second suite for him would have been impractical and inadvisable, potentially giving too much away to the wrong people if they are unlucky. Sherlock is more than willing to err on the side of caution and allow the staff to believe him to be 'company' for their V.I.P. Besides, they are brothers, and although it has been many years now there was a time when Sherlock would go to Mycroft almost regularly, after a vivid nightmare or a particularly arduous day of bullies or boredom, and ask to share his room.

The memories of comfort must be more potent than he thought, because although the bed is twice the size of Mycroft's childhood one, and although his big brother does not curl up within reach of him or pet his hair to settle him as he used to, Sherlock relaxes as instinctively as he did when he was five. It is actually quite embarrassing, considering all that has passed between them since then. Still, he can at least take solace in the fact that he is not the only one affected – Mycroft is taking as much reassurance from Sherlock's presence, if not more, after being led to believe he was dead.

The thought sparks something, and he breaks the quiet at a whisper. "Was my replacement really enough to fool you?"

"I didn't see him for more than a few seconds," Mycroft tells him after a long pause. "I saw the CCTV footage, had the transcripts gleaned from lip-reading, read Miss Hooper's report… I saw John Watson's reaction. I believed, and so I saw what I expected to see." A sigh. "And I was not exactly given a long time."

Sherlock could ask, but he chooses not to. Does it really matter who tugged Mycroft away? Who shouted, demanded that he leave? He can guess, and he can understand that Mycroft may not have been in his right mind after seeing the surrounding evidence. Instead he makes a non-committal noise in his throat and closes his eyes again, letting the matter drop.

Thirteen minutes later, he cannot quite sleep. Something does not feel quite right. He has no desire to apologise, but it is clear from the twitch of his brother's left foot that the older man is embarrassed and he cannot shake the notion that leaving him to wallow would be wrong.

John would likely never believe it – Sherlock himself barely does half the time – but for all his rebellion and sniping and disdain, he does love Mycroft. He hates him just as deeply at times (_abandoned me sided with father criticised never good enough never anything but disrespect for my choices invades my life and privacy_), but he always loves him.

So he forces one last sentence from his lips before he drifts off, and hopes that it is enough in spite of Sherlock disregarding several salient facts.

"I was fooled by Miss Adler; at least for you, it took the skill of a fellow Holmes."

ooo

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you I didn't disappoint anyone, especially after the way I left things last week. If you have the time, I would love to hear what you thought. No flames please, but con-crit is very welcome. Thanks again!


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Length:** 4,343 words  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs**  
>Status:<strong> Incomplete

**A.N.:** I am so, so sorry that this chapter is being posted late. It's still Monday, so hopefully you can forgive me for it… I won't bore you with the reasons for the delay, but coming back online to find such lovely responses to chapter seven has made a mostly horrid week a great deal better.

On that note, thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews, additions to favourites lists and alerts! Haha, I imagine I should be getting my head around the fact that some of you are genuinely enjoying this by now, but no – I still get all giddy and can't quite believe it. So thank you very much!

As always, I need to offer a massive thank you to **interjection**, **patchsassy**, **infinityuphigh** and **velveteenkitten**, who are still being so very kind as to work with me on this lunacy. Their patience is boundless, and I still can't quite believe that such brilliant (in every sense of the word) betas are willing to spend so much time on my scribbles. Thank you!

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 8**

ooo

**Brussels goes well,** although the fortnight is singularly dull. It is filled with monotonous observation and deduction: a matter of collating enough evidence to prove what he already knows, nothing more. Sherlock watches and waits for hours on end, only to take three photographs, leave, and return the next day for more of the same. It makes sense to give him the task rather than disregard his specialities, but he cannot help wishing he could go housebreaking with Douglas just once to break the tedium. There are no surprises when he already knows what it is he is looking for, no real distractions, and his mind steadily tears itself to pieces.

He takes up smoking again. Just for something to fill his time. Sherlock knows what Mycroft would say, remembers John's disapproval and seeing a matching nicotine patch to his own on Lestrade's forearm, and he immediately buys four packets of the best cigarettes he can find. He can see their faces more vividly when he lights up, it seems.

Whykes and Douglas are good men, at least, and Vicker is tolerable knowing that there is an ending in sight. There are certainly worse people he could be working with, and the fact that they can generally get along makes living on top of one another far more bearable, but their persistence in trying to make him engage with them is grating. It is four long evenings before they begin to understand that he has no interest in exchanging stories of home, and it is two more before they finally stop trying to make 'small talk.' Vicker takes it as Sherlock disliking them and responds accordingly, but Whykes must see something in his face because he simply steps back and allows Sherlock the space he needs. He is animated enough during their briefings and intermittent tactical discussions, and that is all that is essentially required of him.

It is the night that they are due to leave, all four of them in the flat at once for the first time in thirteen days, when he lets his guard slip just a little and Whykes bumps into him in the corridor. Sherlock is just exiting the flat's closet of a bathroom, finishing towelling his hair dry as he makes his way back to the living room; his colleague strides around the corner and knocks him sideways. Whykes is halfway through offering an apology when he spots the edge of a forgotten stitch. It has now been weeks since they should have been removed, and the expression on the younger man's face makes it clear that he can tell. Sherlock raises his right hand, registering the slight tug of his muscles against his recently-healed ribs for the first time in over a week, and bites back a soft curse when he feels for himself the way that his skin has sealed over half of them. He realises with a start that in trying to avoid having to remove them himself or visiting an unlicensed clinic he has left them over a month too long – John would have a fit if he knew.

Douglas steps in before Whykes can really get going with his concerned tirade, instructing him to fetch the first aid kit so they can remove the sutures before heading their separate ways. Even Vicker offers a moment of concern, knowing what leaving such a thing for so long means in terms of Sherlock's recent circumstances; he covers it swiftly a second later with a reminder that it will scar now. Sherlock must look far more concerned by that than he is, judging by the speed and insistence of Douglas' reassurances that they will not have to open the full wound again.

"Just a couple of incisions, each half a centimetre at the most, lad," the older man tells him. "The stitches're tiny little buggers – whoever you had do them is bleedin' good – so it'll be no problem."

With that he begins, using a scalpel and tweezers to pick the threads out of Sherlock's skin whilst Vicker holds his head still. Even without the benefit of anaesthetic (_unnecessary_) Sherlock barely feels a thing, distracted by Whykes' rambling as he clatters about the kitchenette making coffees, and it is over quickly.

Molly had indeed done a wonderful job, judging by the presence of only minimal infection even after Sherlock's disregard; a quick flush with salt-water and some antiseptic is all that is required for Douglas to deem him safe from further problems. The tiny cuts made to free the thin surgical thread are not worth the use of a bandage or adhesive strips. Still, there will be a couple of tiny, blanched scars left behind.

Sherlock finds himself almost coveting them already. They will be reminders that he is here, alive, and all of a sudden he discovers that he understands John's duplicity in his attitude regarding the scars on his shoulder a great deal more. The doctor had always fluctuated in his reactions to comments and queries, as though forever straddling the line between distaste and pride, and Sherlock knows that he will soon do so as well. These scars are not like the others dotted here and there on his flesh; they are the result of both failure and victory, a reminder that he is fallible and a danger to those he loves as much as they are a testament to his superior intelligence and bravery. Thinking of them as he sips his coffee, he cannot help but be a little delighted. He has been told more than once that he is not a good man, that there is something inherently cruel and selfish and 'wrong' about him, but proof to the contrary is now written into his skin.

The four men do not waste time with goodbyes, instead simply drinking their coffees and allowing the stress to drain from them in the quiet of the flat. The small space has not allowed for any of them to properly unpack, so as each man drains his mug he picks up his bags from 'his' corner, offers the others a nod, and disappears down the stairs to the street. Sherlock finds it almost fascinating, the way that his colleagues do not babble on, communicating everything with just that one nod. From their gratitude for the coffees they have been made and the blankets they have been lent to their heartfelt wishes that they all finish this 'campaign' healthy and happy… Not that it should still surprise him. They have been sharing a matchbox of a one-bed flat, running a schedule to decide who gets the bed, the sofa or the floor any given night, for the past two weeks. Such an arrangement will always breed a degree of familiarity and casual understanding.

Sherlock is the third to depart, leaving Whykes to close everything up securely. The four of them have been living on Rue de l'Etuve, less than twenty yards from the Manneken Pis and above a waffle shop Sherlock has become very fond of – he may be running his body as though on a case but it would seem that fresh Belgian waffles with strawberries, cream, and white chocolate are an exception to his usual inclinations. It is a shame he does not have the opportunity to indulge one last time.

Despite overhearing Vicker deriding the Manneken for being a disappointment, the temptation to finally take a quick look is enormous. It is just after midnight, the street still busy with tourists although the shops have been closed for hours, so he could almost certainly get away with it, but he refrains. Instead he makes his way through the thickening crowds to the Grand Place, indulging in one short bout of tourism. He has wanted to see the square for years, with its many guildhalls and the Maison du Roi.

The walk takes less than five minutes and the square is impressive to say the least, but the architecture fails to hold his attention. Everywhere he looks there are couples and groups of friends, and Sherlock sticks out like a sore thumb without any company of his own. He moves along quickly, only pausing to buy another keyring for John on his way to the station as he fumes. It is maddening that he still feels this damnable loneliness. He had thought – hoped – that his time with Mycroft's agents would have alleviated it, at least temporarily, but instead it feels stronger than ever; the three men are by no means the company he wishes for, but their habits had held military influences. It has been somewhat soothing to find the cupboards organised the same way John preferred, to see the washing-up piled so carefully, to look across at the papers on the dining table and see the same patterns he always saw on the coffee table at 221B.

It will be Christmas in under five months. With Mycroft and his team helping, he just has to hold on until then.

ooo

**After Brussels comes** a week in Gothenburg, his poor Swedish proving less of an issue than he had feared when it turns out he is required to speak less than ten sentences. From there he flies to Esbjerg, where he spends almost a month trying very hard not to shoot the imbecile Mycroft is forcing him to work with (_the gene pool would thank him – he failed to notice the cerise stains when Sherlock began experimenting in the sink, for God's sake_). Then Athens, Sydney, Hong Kong; the weeks and months soon start blurring together, no matter how hard Sherlock tries to compartmentalise each city within his brain. The haze is broken only by periodic discussions with Mycroft.

Sherlock does not follow his brother's 'instructions' with any level of deference; however, he no longer openly argues either. For the most part his brother's men understand the situation: they will not be told just who this mysterious 'Robert Clarke' is, but he holds their boss' respect and care in ways no one else seems to and is therefore afforded a certain amount of leeway during their interactions. Understanding, however, does not mean that they accept it.

The expected finally occurs when Sherlock is in Cuba. The man is in his thirties, a former Captain (_just like John_) who had been wounded badly but remained far too exceptional to live a quiet life, resulting in an invitation to join Mycroft's little Members Only task force. He has not yet quite come to the realisation that Mycroft does not actually require protection or defence, his soldiers being little more than decoration, and when Sherlock snarls a threat wrapped in a paragraph of insults he does not hesitate to "try teaching him some manners," as they say in all those films John enjoys.

He is halted almost immediately by the rather violent use of an umbrella and Sherlock has no doubt that he will never seen this particular gentleman again. Still, he has learned a little about the occasional need for caution and sycophancy when being observed by his brother's lackeys.

There is _one_ benefit to working with Mycroft, aside from the obvious emotional advantages of a familiar face and news of his home and loved ones: the time spent in each city. Sherlock is assigned to the most challenging observations, the ones where no one else can possibly connect the necessary dots to see what data is relevant and what is acted or leaked as cover. There are no more instances of sleeping in three cities in a week. He spends over three weeks in Sydney alone, and almost a month each in Havana and Morelia. It does not make him miss London any less, but it at least allows him to focus more on the task at hand than the logistics for his next move. The offices and agents he investigates are more interesting, too – they do not make stupid mistakes or rely on hideously muscular doormen to protect them. They are subtle and deeply menacing behind the slick smiles, running any number of schemes both beneath and above the radar with the confidence of those who know they cannot be touched.

Or could not, before Sherlock became involved.

ooo

**Despite all his **hopes and exemplary work, the weeks and months soon pile up. Sherlock does not make it home for Christmas.

Instead, he spends the holiday period tucked carefully out of sight in Dublin's Mespil Hotel. It is the closest he has been to home in six months and, despite the frigid temperatures and overly exuberant crowds, Sherlock cannot help wishing that he could leave for more than ten minutes at a time when fetching the odd meal. The short walks around the corner to Tin Tin's or Eddie Rocket's are a genuine delight – hearing his own language, regardless of accent, has become a luxury – and even as little as five extra minutes outside would be a blessing. Unfortunately, Sherlock knows what the consequences of such an indulgence could be. Not to mention that he is very much aware that those five minutes would inevitably become a half-hour stroll around Merrion Square Park. He takes to leaving the television on constantly as an alternative, even whilst he sleeps, the volume lowered until he can just make out the words; it is easy enough to remain ahead of the Gaelic programming after the first couple of days.

His hotel room is of average size, but after nine days of being essentially trapped within it Sherlock feels as though the walls are closing in on him. Had he been here for a purpose it would have been awful enough; in this particular case, though, Sherlock is on standby, waiting as back-up in case the original team encounters serious difficulties. In the months he has been working with Mycroft there has not been a single instance of the support operative being called in, and the idea of being left to rot here for however many weeks makes him feel sick and anxious (_long-term stress catching up with him due to inactivity and lack of distraction_). By the time Mycroft shows up, unplanned and unannounced at his door on Christmas Eve, Sherlock is suffering from his first cold in four years.

Mycroft steps past him without a word, not waiting to be invited in. Had he done so eight months ago Sherlock would have shouted, done his best to cause a scene, but today he swallows his irritation and just appreciates his brother's company. Not least because he knows the older man will have news of London (_of John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade_) to impart.

He is not disappointed.

"All internal inquiries at Scotland Yard have been completed," Mycroft begins, "and DI Lestrade will be keeping his job. I believe I've managed to partially salvage his reputation as well, you'll be pleased to hear – consider it your Christmas present."

"Thank you." There is a part of Sherlock's mind shouting that he should be responding with a barb of some sort, but Mycroft is not being cruel or sarcastic. He has done his best to save the career of Sherlock's friend as a kindness to him, and is offering both the fact and the piece of mind it brings as a gift. Sherlock is quite content to simply express his gratitude humbly, if only this once.

Silence settles between them quickly and almost easily, although Sherlock glowers when Mycroft moves to switch off the television. The older man sighs but takes a seat instead – the volume is barely above a whisper, and no impediment to conversation between the brothers.

"Not that I am failing to appreciate your company," Sherlock begins a few minutes later from his perch on the bed, "because I've been more bored than I thought possible this past week, but why are you here?"

"It's Christmas Eve, Sherlock. Is it so surprising that I would like to spend the afternoon with my little brother?" Mycroft replies, without even a twitch.

RTÉ announces a Gaelic sitcom, but Sherlock leaves it on; in all honesty, sixteen serial killers, nine chemists and The Woman herself could prance through the room dressed as Muppets and Sherlock's glare would not shift from his brother. After three minutes, Mycroft swallows a little awkwardly, diverting his gaze for a split-second rather than offering an explanation.

Sherlock seethes. "We haven't celebrated Christmas once since Mummy was alive to insist, and you've never had any problem with that before today. _Why are you here_, Mycroft?"

A sigh, and then Sherlock wishes he had let the subject slide. "You've been using it as motivation, Sherlock. What was it?" the older man muses, pulling a small, moleskin notebook from his inside pocket. "'Tea and biscuits with John on Christmas Day'?"

"How dare – !"

"If you will insist upon muttering to yourself where you surely realise I have cameras in place, you should not be surprised when I know more than you feel I should," he snaps. Sherlock's response is no more coherent than a snarl. "I thought you would appreciate a familiar face and some news," he continues, sounding just a touch uncertain and almost gentle behind the irritation.

Regardless of the undertone, there follows a terrible moment when brogued feet slide backwards as though ready to take Mycroft's weight, during which Sherlock honestly believes that his brother will stand and leave. The thought of being alone again, caged in this one room for the foreseeable future, is awful enough in itself. What sends horror ricocheting down his spine, however, is the knowledge that he will not be able to let the other man walk by. His fingers are already spasming where they rest on the chocolate coverlet, and he can feel the building plea like a lump in his throat. As much as he will hate himself for it, if Mycroft moves to leave, Sherlock knows he will not be above begging.

Fortunately, the elder Holmes chooses to settle a little deeper into the chair instead. Sherlock clamps down on his relief quickly and hopes it was missed. Which is unlikely, of course – his brother's eyes are equal to Sherlock's own – however, the illusion allows him to keep his pride. The sneeze that creeps up on him dents it regardless. Mycroft refrains from fussing, although his desire to do so is obvious. He relaxes and trusts Sherlock's judgement that the slight cold is nothing to worry about when he makes each of them a coffee, reassured by the undiminished speed and steadiness of his pale fingers, and their conversation becomes less halting as they discuss recent progress.

When talk eventually, inevitably, turns to further news of John and the others, Sherlock is grateful that Mycroft does not do him the disservice of lying. The amount of comfort that lies – even those of simple omission – could bring him is debateable at best. Even Sherlock himself has no inkling as to what he would wish to hear, aside from that they are all healthy and safe (_which is the truth anyway, unless he has mysteriously lost the ability to read his brother_). Hearing that they are in pain, missing him all the more with the arrival of Christmas, is torturous and not at all what he wants for them; in spite of this, Sherlock knows that he is a selfish man and would not be above bitterness if they were entirely happy without him. It is a horrible contradiction, but there is little he can do about it.

It is a tad ironic that the longest, most civil conversation the Holmes brothers have had since Sherlock's childhood is being held after he has been declared legally deceased. They manage a full two hours, the flow of their exchange only ending when interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. Sherlock does not flinch. Mycroft is unsurprised and the knock was smart, military – the likelihood of it being Major Lucas at the door is over eighty percent. Sherlock lets him in with a huff of annoyance and the Major grins at him indulgently.

"Merry Christmas, 'Rob,'" comes the bright greeting.

"Indeed," is his deadpan response. The soldier has a bag in his left hand (_paper, but not crumpled by impacts against the carrier's thigh, so it contains something of importance_), which Sherlock reluctantly accepts.

Tea. Expensive tea – an exclusive blend of lightly spiced Darjeeling, which Sherlock has never tried but will love, if the scent is anything to go by. A carefully-wrapped packet of biscuits, compiled of lemon thins and squishy chocolate cookies, is tucked down one side.

Sherlock could cry. He is touched and hurting and _utterly_ furious. He could throttle Mycroft, he really could, but his brother would not have given him these. Mycroft would have brought him either White Peony tea or some expensive coffee, and insisted upon a miniature Christmas cake or Yule log. This gift is not an ill-conceived consolation from him.

When he raises his head, the Major has horrified confusion written all over his face and Mycroft obviously has no idea what to say or where to look. Sherlock manages to choke out a thank you before any last vestiges of dignity are lost as his own expression crumples.

"Fucking Hell!" Lucas bursts out, perplexed guilt seeping into his voice. "I'm sorry, sir. I just thought – I mean, you're stuck in here on your own – It's Christmas, for God's sake, I just wanted to – "

Mycroft raises a hand, halting the upset rambling. "We know, Major, and the gesture is considerate and duly welcome. My brother's reaction is neither your fault nor a reflection on your choice of presents." He stands, readying himself to leave before continuing in an unusually kind tone, "Sherlock, I believe it would be prudent for me to take my leave. I don't want you feeling obliged to share."

Sherlock nods, taking the 'out' the older Holmes is offering. "Thank you for visiting, and for the news," he replies, before turning to the fidgeting soldier on his right. "Merry Christmas. I appreciate the gift," he tells him, awkward and terribly formal, as he places the bag carefully on the desk.

"You're welcome," the Major mumbles, for lack of anything else to say. "Hope you enjoy 'em," he calls over his shoulder as he moves hesitantly towards the door (_respectful of his need for privacy, but uncertain about leaving him in such a state_). Mycroft ushers him the final few steps out of the room with a last, apologetic glance Sherlock's way.

He waits, trembling, until he can no longer hear the pair's footsteps in the long hallway before allowing himself to keel over. The fact that the large double bed takes up more than half the room finally proves to be an advantage; he lands atop it rather than crashing to the floor, and twists to bury his face in the soft pillows. He had thought he could cope with this disappointment, had decided that he would not allow it to distress him. He will still eventually get home. It is only Christmas – a day like any other as far as Sherlock had been concerned, only recognised at the behest of Mummy until John insisted on tinsel, lights and all the trappings of the holiday season. It should mean nothing to him.

It _did_ mean nothing to him. Even last year, when John insisted that they throw that ill-fated get-together, Sherlock had little to no interest in any of the celebrations. The 'special' biscuits Mrs. Hudson went to the trouble of making for them were enjoyable, he will admit, and the opportunity to play the violin had been pleasant enough. Being limited to festive tunes had been a tad insulting, but the applause had proven worth it. It had been quite nice to give and receive gifts for the first time in so long too, particularly when he had chosen so well for Lestrade that the man had choked on air in outright shock when he had unwrapped the offering.

Still, they were small actions; any one of them could have occurred on any other day of the year, if Sherlock decided it should be so.

The truth is that he has used the day as an unofficial deadline for all his efforts, hanging all his hopes on it because it made an effective marker and a six-month time limit had seemed so very reasonable. This Christmas matters because Sherlock promised himself that he would be home, that he could apologise for his actions and put Moriarty and his impact on everyone's lives firmly in the past. It matters all the more because he is not and cannot. And to return to 221B now, when the job is only half-done… If he were to return now, what would be the point of the last six months? What explanation would he give for remaining away, for not returning and putting a stop to the grief that he has left in his wake, when he would be invalidating his reasoning by being there to provide it? At least if he completes his task he can offer their safety as recompense for the trouble (_and continued suffering,_ _if Mycroft is to be believed_) he has caused them.

It may well be true that he will return to London at a later date, that he just has to hold on for a little longer, but he does not want to wait. Sherlock desperately does not want to spend more weeks and months in hotel rooms in foreign countries, regardless of how 'pretty' they may be or how interesting his assignment is. He wants to be home with John, watching crap telly or allowing Angelo to feed them for free yet again. Until then, he feels as though he is still trapped beneath _dear Jim_'s thumb, no matter how cold and dead it may be.

Sherlock clutches at his too-short hair, buries his face a little deeper in the cotton of the pillowcases, and screams and sobs his way into blessed unconsciousness.

ooo

Thank you, as ever, for reading! Hopefully I've yet to disappoint anyone... And, once again, I'm sorry for the delay. I'll do my best to ensure it doesn't happen again! If you have the time, I would love to hear what you thought. No flames, please, but con-crit is always welcome.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Length:** 3,597 words

**Warnings:** Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs

**Status:** Incomplete

**A.N.:**Thank you, yet again, for all the fantastic responses I've received for this fic. One of the most wonderful things is how many readers on here and on FFn are giving me feedback for every chapter - you're all being so incredibly generous with your time to do so, and I adore you for it. Thank you so, so very much.

As ever, thanks have to go to the amazingly skilled and kind betas I've been so lucky as to work with. **velveteenkitten**, **interjection**, **patchsassy** and **infinityuphigh** - thank you for all your help and encouragement.

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 9**

ooo

**It is the** nineteenth of January when Sherlock's brother next contacts him. The Dublin office has apparently been taken care of, and his expertise is required elsewhere. A car will arrive for him in three hours (_Mycroft knows about the keyrings and is giving him time_), the text says, although no destination is provided. Fortunately, that is not the information he considers important in this case. What Sherlock has been desperate to hear is that he will not be acting as support again, and he is not disappointed. The past month has driven him mad; the renewed smoking habit he swore to himself would be kept under control has spiralled from one cigarette every couple of days to one every couple of hours. With nothing to dress for, Sherlock has been languishing in an undershirt and his pyjama bottoms for the past five days. His bags have been kept packed at the end of the bed, ready for him to leave at a moment's notice, out of wretched hope that each morning will begin with new instructions – only a clean pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a thick, forest-green jumper have been left out, waiting patiently on the back of the room's armchair. After a hurried shower, they are finally put to use.

He is not absent from the hotel for long. There are galleries and shopping centres within easy walking distance, not to mention Trinity College and the Book of Kells less than fifteen minutes away. The National Gallery is simplest though, with non-existent queues, and Sherlock is back at the Mespil less than half an hour after the initial call. With nothing left to do, he sits and toys with the small metal ring and the attached logo until it is warm from the constant connection to his fingers, at which point he tucks it away with the others.

The knock comes an hour early, insistent and urgent. Sherlock is cautious but not truly worried – he knows that pattern, and when the tiny peephole shows a frowning Douglas he is not the least bit taken aback. He opens the door and the older man holds it while Sherlock grabs his coat and bags.

"Compromised?" he asks as they stride briskly down the hall.

"Not yet," comes the tight reply, "but there's potential. No one you know, lad," Douglas tells him, offering a tiny smile. "No one any of us knows, actually. Hired runner. Might know a little more than he should, though."

"Ah. Not actually a threat then, as long as everyone clears out of Dublin in time. They already know we know about them – they have to by now – and I seriously doubt the runner had access to any information regarding current targets," he muses. "None of us are so stupid as to mention them."

"Quite right," Douglas grins, mimicking Sherlock's accent briefly when they exit the lift. "Just need to extract everyone. Even then, you shouldn't be in any danger here. Only I knew where our back-up was, and I didn't know it was you until ten minutes ago. The Boss Man's just bein' careful."

Sherlock nods wryly in response, then waves the man away whilst he pays and checks out. The receptionist is, luckily, efficient and Sherlock is in the waiting Land Rover nice and quickly. There is a skinny, grey-haired man he doesn't know driving, whilst Douglas sits in the back with Sherlock. He doesn't ask for a name, and only acknowledges him with a nod. Douglas smirks.

"Still an anti-social bugger," he states as he hands over an envelope. "That there's your ticket, boarding pass, confirmation of your booking at the hotel… You know the drill."

Another nod from Sherlock, and then there is nothing but the sound of the engine.

ooo

**Sherlock steps out** of Venice's Marco Polo airport into more miserable weather than he left in Ireland. The water is smooth as he is taken out to the city itself, only turning a little choppy at the mid-point, and the flooding comes as quite a shock. He knows about the acqua alta, but he never anticipated it occurring during his stay. The hotel Mycroft has booked for him, Casa Rezzonico, is close to the edge of a smaller canal, and he cannot help but feel nervous. When he arrives he discovers he had no reason to worry – the Peggy Guggenheim is less than one hundred meters away and both buildings are untouched by the water.

The small hotel is comfortable, Sherlock's room a warm combination of red and magnolia, and is probably the only one in all of Venice with a green garden. When the sun finally shines on the third morning, Sherlock takes a small breakfast of coffee and a pastry out on the lawn; the air is fairly chilly and the grass slightly damp, but he is still suffering a slight backlash from his incarceration in Dublin. The simple joy of being outside is more than enough compensation for the cold seeping through his epidermis, making him shiver. He has never been one for 'simple pleasures,' and it surprises him how very much they mean to him now. Not that it should – human beings will take comfort wherever and however they can during times of trial, and he is no exception. Of course, it is to a decidedly less humiliating extent in his case.

There is no way for Sherlock to blend in here. His skill with the language in general is admirable (_close to both French and Spanish, plus his uncle by marriage had been Florentian_); however, his knowledge of the local slang is incomplete. Not to mention that he is too tall, too pale and far too angular to go unnoticed in this close-knit society. Robert Clarke becomes a writer, taking a long break whilst researching his next attempt at a novel, and it does not take long for the locals to learn his name and begin calling out greetings as though he has been living there for years. Venetians are, it would seem, either extremely friendly or have an admirable awareness of how much their economy relies on tourism generated by writers and the like. Within the week they are beckoning him over to pass on bits and pieces of local gossip and lore quite happily. Sherlock smiles and laughs and feigns interest, only to disregard two-thirds of what he is told as irrelevant. The final third, on the other hand, is more than worthy of investigation, and he spends hours doing so whilst trying to avoid the streets and squares where the acqua alta is stubbornly lingering. Not that they are impassable, but he does not enjoy the indignity of queuing and jostling his way along the temporary platforms.

Piazza San Marco is, as expected, the worst. It may be the 'off' season, but the queues for the Basilica and the Palazzo Ducale are ridiculous nonetheless and completely block the gangways – Sherlock avoids the square entirely after wasting over an hour trying to walk less than four hundred meters. It is a perfectly understandable course of action, in his opinion, although it does result in some rather odd and lengthy detours. It will be the last place to be reclaimed from the lagoon as well, he is sure; water seeps through the grates at high tide during the summer months, for goodness' sake. The flooding may only come to an inch or so above his ankles, the one time he decides to check, but there is far more beneath the city's famous streets – it actually totals more than an extra meter, according to the reports, and his hosts tell him it will have affected roughly a quarter of the city.

It is more than a simple annoyance, though. Venice may be prepared for such instances, but that does not mean life continues without a care. Progress is depressingly slow until the waters finally recede. Mycroft had been unable to provide photographs of either of the Venetian agents, and Sherlock knows better than to loiter near the tiny office after his near-disasters in Coimbra and Havana. Soon he is doing little more than banging his face against the proverbial brick wall, growing more frustrated by the day.

Or he would have been, if he was not so very charmed by the city.

It is pleasant in all the standard ways, but the stories grab Sherlock by his very _marrow_. As with many Italian cities, Venice boasts a plethora of myths and legends all its own; many are terrifying, more are bloody, and several are a glorious combination of the two. Sherlock spends hours in cafés and bars listening to enthusiastic locals trying to one-up each other, and adores every second. He spends long evenings writing his favourites down for future enjoyment, and by the time the pavements are dry and normal service has resumed Sherlock is stunned to find that he has not only been distracted from his boredom, but also his thoughts of John and 221B.

It is confusing. The temporary relief has done wonders for him; he can feel his muscles tighten and his chest ache when the awareness of his losses returns, both sensations he had failed to properly register or account for until now. He has been happier than he has in months, has enjoyed his time without the maudlin, painful thoughts, and he cannot help but resent their reappearance. Conversely, the guilt threatens to consume him. To forget John and the others for even an hour seems unthinkable (_a sacrilege and a betrayal_), and that he's allowed them to slip from his mind for days has him spilling whispered apologies into his tea-cup.

ooo

**The situation moves** along quickly once Sherlock has confirmed the identities of his marks. They are subtle and strangely well-trained, but gathering the evidence required is a study in patience more than skill; within a fortnight he has enough to bury them. All that is left to do is to retrieve a few documents from the office itself – an easy task, now that he knows the agents' routines and has observed one of them entering the code for the 'safe' room.

He does not stand and wait for an hour for them to leave – he walks straight there, across the Rialto bridge and down three side streets until he can see the market across the canal. He arrives at precisely seven-seventeen in the evening; early enough that he has a full half-hour before he needs to be gone, but not so much so that anyone will notice anything amiss if they see a figure entering the office. Ignoring the reception area, he takes the stairs two at a time to reach the second floor. The building is as empty as he knew it would be, with not a sound from the neighbouring accountancy firm even when the internal door slams behind him.

The file Mycroft has named most vital will most likely be at the very back of the windowless storage room, in a locked cabinet. The cabinet is easy enough to find (_coded labels using the periodic table_) and the lock itself proves no trouble at all, but the number of files he has to check through to find the one he needs is another matter. It takes him halfway to his deadline to find the thin, manila folder. He tucks it under his shirt immediately, securing it with a spare belt, just in case he is interrupted. He then fills his bag with a variety of folders and envelopes from any unlocked or easily-jimmied cabinets as quickly as he can before returning to the ground-floor reception area. With it being only February, he is yet hopeful that last year's diary will have yet to be thrown away; he finds it in less than a minute, buried beneath a handful of recent post. It is tempting to take the envelopes as well, but he has been so careful to leave no trace of an intruder upstairs that to do so now feels nothing short of stupid. The diary, now useless to them, could have been mislaid. Recent correspondence could not.

Sherlock leaves without incident five minutes earlier than planned, and calmly makes his way back to Casa Rezzonico. As far as his hosts are concerned he has been out enjoying the galleries since this morning, and they greet him without suspicion or worry. He has been cordial with them without allowing himself to be drawn in as he was with Rosa, and they accept the news without a fuss when he informs them that he will be leaving the next day. It is a couple of days earlier than booked, but in terms of his schedule, he is right on time. His alibi is in place – his agent, a friend of six years, has suffered a stroke and 'Robert' cannot, in good conscience, remain on holiday.

They advise him to eat out on his last night in the city, and it fits far too well with his persona to refuse. He ends up across town in an out-of-the-way restaurant owned by a family friend, filled with locals and going by the name Osteria alla Staffa (_he translates it to something like 'The Stirrup Inn,' which seems innocuous enough_). The food is delicious, the atmosphere lovely, and one of Moriarty's agents is at a table to Sherlock's right.

It is not particularly improbable, he supposes. Many of Venice's restaurants are packed with tourists, especially as it is now early February, so one as far from the beaten path as this would naturally do very well with the locals. What is an unwelcome surprise is that the man seated across from his mark is obviously a colleague (_professional but familiar demeanour, work-related conversation for over ten minutes including mentions of files, very similar suits and bearings_), but not one Sherlock has seen before, despite having monitored the office for over a fortnight. He has not been rushing, but now he takes smaller, slower bites to ensure he can observe the two for as long as possible.

Not that there is much to observe. These men are far too intelligent to discuss the realities of their business with so many ears around, and by the time his dessert arrives Sherlock has accepted that there is little he can do with regards to the stranger. He takes a picture on his phone, disguising the move by appearing to photograph his torta di ricotta, with the intention of sending it to Mycroft at the first opportunity. Later, he will wonder why on earth it failed to occur to him to present the elder Holmes with a photograph of the torta as well, but for the moment he is too focused on this blasted unknown. The man is older then both the Venetian agents (_early- to mid-forties_), and his accent is that of someone for whom learning Italian is a relatively recent endeavour. No, Sherlock's job is done. The concern now is that the presence of this man (_respected, deferred to by body-language: a superior?_) means that the organisation has finally elected a 'successor,' as it were, and this meeting is indicative of improved cooperation and coordination between offices.

The very last thing Sherlock needs is a new spider.

Unfortunately, that may be what the stranger is. His watch is exactly the same make and model as Moriarty's (_could be awed imitation or coincidence; could be intentional association and insinuation_), and when the second agent arrives (_checked the office, found nothing amiss_) his reaction only causes Sherlock more concern. He can pick out the Italian for Colonel in the greeting, plus the young man's admiration is even more apparent than his partner's. The is a touch of obsequiousness there, easy for Sherlock to pick up on after so many years with Mycroft, but what is truly telling is that the 'Colonel' does so as well yet makes no comment. It is expected, encouraged.

It is Sherlock's worst bloody nightmare.

He does not leave in a hurry, but he still catches the way the older man's eyes follow his movements. Sherlock wants to say that there is something there, some level of recognition or suspicion; though it is possible, he cannot afford to consider it. Instead, he wanders back to his hotel, only allowing himself to glance over his shoulder in response to particularly loud noises. No one is following him.

However, the presence of the 'Colonel' at the airport the following afternoon does little to help settle Sherlock's thoughts.

ooo

**Mycroft meets him** in Germany, and his reaction to Sherlock's concerns is that of a man who knew a storm was coming but lived in the hope that it would not. It leads to another shouting match – the older man should know better after the last time he kept such potentially crucial warnings to himself, considering it ended in Sherlock's blood washing over the pavement. Sherlock rages, roaring discontent and, for a few short seconds, abuse; he stops abruptly when Major Lucas raises a hand. The ensuing silence is awkward and deafening, and Sherlock does not endure it for long. He allows the two men twenty seconds in which to respond before allowing his face to twist with derision, and he walks out in an obvious rage.

It is tempting to refuse to work with Mycroft again. Sherlock has been kept in the dark when he has been assured on multiple occasions that he never would be; it is only the thought of what Mycroft's response would be that stops him leaving Düsseldorf without a word. He is not so foolish as to believe that his brother would not hunt him down, after which he would most likely be left with no choice but to cooperate. Sherlock's eyes and mind are valuable commodities, which Mycroft would be unwilling to relinquish without an impressive fight.

Instead, he waits. Two days later, Mycroft is apologising and giving him every last ounce of intelligence they have amassed to date, promising that this argument is not one they will have again.

Sherlock is sent to Turkey, and spends his three weeks in Ankara hoping not to see the Colonel again. Amerson is a reasonable man, for all that his name reminds the younger man of Anderson's, and understands immediately when Sherlock explains the reason for his constant caution. News of a "New Big Bad," as the soldier puts it, has been passed along, but Sherlock is the first to have seen him. He is able to furnish him with the photograph, which Amerson immediately sends to every agent he has contact details for and then studies himself for a good two hours.

"I've seen him," he mutters, frowning. "I'm sure of it. He's not as good at blending with the crowds as some of the other agents."

"He wouldn't be. I'd estimate him to be at least six-foot-five, and his features are all very square – jaw, shoulders, palms," Sherlock tells him, trying to encourage just a little more information from the older man.

"Tanned when I saw him, too," Amerson says, tone distracted, and Sherlock bites his tongue and waits until – "Jo'burg! That's where I saw him! He was in Johannesburg, had a coffee with the guy I was assigned to." His face falls. "Fuck. He was right under my fucking nose, and I never twigged he was another agent. Fucking shit."

Sherlock has never been good at reassurance; it seems far safer for all parties for him to leave Amerson to it when the shorter man strides to the window, glaring out at the darkness.

Three days later he offers a quiet reassurance that Amerson should let it go, that it was not his fault or responsibility, when they shake hands at the station. The soldier shakes his head, but his smile seems a little easier and Sherlock cannot help thinking that John would be proud of him. The hopeful, pleasant thought follows him across the country to Batman, where he spends a week photographing several covert meetings involving large quantities of ketamine and methamphetamine whilst trying not to derive too much amusement from the city's name. After the 'Geek Interpreter' case John had revisited his childhood heroes, and Batman has refused to be deleted. There were far too many jokes, too many happy moments of John sharing anecdotes and Sherlock sniggering away; if keeping those moments means keeping the reference, Sherlock will accept the loss of space in his hard-drive. It is, after all, negligible in relation to the whole.

Of course, the memories cannot distract him forever. After Batman he leaves Turkey entirely, flying to China and then entering Tibet by road. There are no triggers for happy memories to be found here, and no time to indulge when he manages to dredge up a few in response to the meals and early mornings. He spends almost a month at a monastery in the mountains close to Xainza and the S203, cold and miserable, trying to pin down the location of a bolthole used by one of Moriarty's operatives to hoard stolen and illegal goods too unique or distinctive to immediately sell on. By the time he finds it there are mere hours to spare, and Sherlock is, for the first time, afraid that he could be too late. It is pure luck that has him succeed in getting the necessary information to his waiting back-up in time for them to take decisive action, and the entire mission is a wake-up call he did not want.

Still. Lucerne is worse. In Lucerne, he _is_ too slow.

ooo

As always, thank you so much for reading. I hope I haven't disappointed anyone yet! If you have the time and inclination, I would really appreciate 'hearing' your thoughts via review - no flames, please, but con-crit is a wonderful thing. Thanks again!


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Length:** 3,889 words

**Warnings:** Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs

**Status:** Incomplete

**A.N.: **I am so, so sorry for the lengthy delay. Unfortunately, I've been very unwell – my depression ramped things up a lot, and I'm afraid in all the ugliness this ended up taking a back-seat. I won't bore you with the details, but I will assure you that it was neither planned nor a conscious choice, and that I'm extremely sorry. To try to avoid a repeat, I'm afraid I'm changing the scheduling slightly. Instead of a new chapter every Monday, I'll be updating once a fortnight – this is to help me get a handle on my brain again, and to avoid putting unnecessary pressure on my betas. I'm very sorry to do this, but I'm afraid that, for now at least, it feels like the most responsible option.

Anyway, I need to thank everyone for their lovely comments over on LJ, and reviews and adds here on FFn. Even though I've got them so late, they've been a joy to read, and I am ever so grateful for all the kind words. Thank you!

As ever, thanks need to go to my wonderful betas – **infinityuphigh**, **interjection**, **patchsassy** and **velveteenkitten** – for all their hard work, kindness and patience. Thank you so, so much.

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 10**

ooo

**Sherlock is barely** a meter from the doors, taking his first drag on a sorely-needed cigarette, when the Lucerne branch of Bachmann's explodes behind him. The blast of superheated air shoves him forward and down towards the pavement; Sherlock throws his hands against the ground first in an attempt to save his face, hoping that his gloves will somehow hold, only to cry out at the feeling of his skin being shredded by the friction. The action may have prevented the flesh of his jaw and chin being ripped away, but it does little to temper the force of the unavoidable impact and his head strikes hard against tarmac. He hears, as though from a great distance, brake pads protesting sudden abuse. The road. He is in the road.

Panic seizes him. Not so much due to his location (_the shop is set back on Shwanenplatz, with far less traffic than the main road a few extra, life-saving meters away_), but because of the sudden sluggish quality of his thoughts. Each one takes so many more seconds than usual and a frightening amount of effort – he hit his head, yes, but this cannot be due to concussion alone. Sherlock knows concussion well, has thought through and around the foggy, slow sensations many times, and this is not it. Concussion does not freeze his thoughts part-way to completion like this.

His fingers are cold. He briefly entertains the thought that they should be, now his gloves are gone, but the torn skin should be burning pain along his nerves. Instead, they are already freezing at their tips.

Shock, Sherlock realises with a jolt. He is going into shock. Interesting. There were times, of course, during his seven percent days, but he has never suffered such a reaction to simple violence before. All he can assume is that the heat and debris have done more damage to him than he is currently able to discern.

The sound of the initial blast echoes in Sherlock's head and he cringes against the ground, raising torn and bloody hands to shield his skull and cervical vertebrae. They are precious little protection. He desperately wants his coat, his wonderful Belstaff, and finds himself unable to recall where it went. He knows it is in London, but cannot remember where; the idea that he has somehow damaged his memory sends his heart-rate soaring for a moment, worsening his panic and causing him to hyperventilate, until he remembers that he was never privy to where it went after Molly carefully bagged it. An evidence locker, perhaps, or to Lestrade once it became clear that its presence in 221B was hurting John. A skip.

Thoughts of the coat inevitably creep closer to thoughts of the last time he was on the ground like this, the last time he was bleeding on the floor with a concussion and jumbled thoughts, and he throws up the mental blocks. Sherlock cannot afford to be distracted from the present. Not with a semi-destroyed, still-burning building less than fifteen meters from his feet and his health becoming more compromised by the moment.

The screams have finally started, the brain's instinctive "bubble-wrap" reaction wearing off as people slowly accept what they are seeing. One woman is laughing hysterically, uncontrollably, somewhere to Sherlock's left; her reaction triggers his own crazed giggles, hauling them from his throat in spite of his attempts to suppress them. It is not at all the same as standing beside John, giggling companionably at a crime scene in London. Except that it is, even if it is frenzied rather than warm, because what is the bombing of a shop full of civilians if not a crime? Not that he would be required to assist with this one, when the answer (_suicide bomb, mark carried a backpack so probably aiming for Sherlock himself – unaware of the latter, the authorities will put it down to terrorism_) is so simple and clear.

He opens his eyes. Black. Tarmac. No, his head is turned to face the source of the laughter – at this angle it cannot be only the road. Blindne– Sleeve. It is the sleeve of his jacket. His hands are still above his head, going numb as less blood reaches them. Bad for shock, that.

He lowers them, settling his arms out at thirty-degree angles to his sides and wriggling his fingers as best he can. He has to improve his circulation. It is rather less than healthy at the best of times, never mind when he is dazed, bloody and in shock in the middle of a Swiss road.

(_Swiss road. Swiss road, Swiss roll, jam – __**John**__ – dessert – __**desert**__-__**Afghanistan**__-__**John**__ – breakfast – __**John**__ – kitchen – __**John**__ – 221B, JohnJohn__**John**__, need John, need doctor need __**John**_– )

He can see the laughing woman (_mid-twenties, single, jeweller, day off_). Her arm is missing. No, not missing. Removed from her person but not missing because he can see it lying three meters above her head, taken off by a piece of fast-moving debris. Glass from one of the large windows, most likely; the angle was very unlucky. She requires assistance within the next eighty-eight seconds if she is going to live. Shock and blood loss – she needs a doctor.

She needs John. _Sherlock_ needs John. John is a soldier and a doctor and brilliant. John would know exactly what to do or say to stop the infernal racket everyone is making. John would be able to tell Sherlock whether he has damaged anything aside from his hands, and would be able to force Sherlock's body to accept his mind's attempts to get it under control.

The shouts begin as a handful of bystanders regain their self-control. They ask, inanely, whether everyone is alright, the question posed in German and then translated through language after language after language – when Sherlock dares to hope that they have finished broadcasting their stupidity, they begin again from the start. Yet no one comes forward to help. The wreckage behind Sherlock is obviously unstable, judging by the smell of smoke and intermittent crashes coming from it, and no one dares to risk coming any closer. If a gas main is damaged, or if a second bomb is waiting… Sherlock can understand the caution being shown, but that does not stop him wanting to throttle the idiots calling on him to "hang in there," and telling him, "it'll be okay."

Eighty-nine seconds. The woman is going to die.

Sherlock wants to tell her. She is calling out for help between barks of uncontrollable laughter and the odd half-screamed sob, yelling in German (_Baden-Württemberg region, most likely Stuttgart – she is terrified and letting her accent slip_) for someone to save her. Her remaining hand is clamped hard over the stump of her left arm, trying and failing to stem the heavy blood-loss. It is as painful as it is pointless, Sherlock is sure; he should tell her. If he tells her not to worry or struggle, that she will be dead within the next seven minutes no matter how hard she fights it or how much medical attention she may receive, then she can let go of the wound. It will be faster, and far less agonising. A 'kinder' end. And Sherlock might not particularly care for her or the racket she is making, but he can still be kind.

Wait. Kind. There is something about kindness, something John told him to consider when Sherlock intends to be kind. It was after the incident with Molly and _Jim_, he is sure of that much – he can see John, standing across from him a week after their first encounter with Moriarty (_their first chance to really talk about everything, due to the chaos of the case and the resulting backlash_), wearing a painfully bright, cadmium orange jumper (_sent by Harry_) and looking both frustrated and sympathetic as he realised that Sherlock had genuinely been trying to help. Still, he had insisted that Sherlock plan out an apology for Molly before he allowed a trip to Bart's.

What was it he said, though? A strict instruction, John slipping slightly into the military tone employed to make Sherlock eat or sleep or cease playing the violin between the hours of one and five in the morning. He can hear it in his head, but the words seem foreign. Frustration swells. He needs to remember, quickly, so that he can tell her and she can let go of her arm. Do not be 'kind' when… When what? John always appeared so pleasantly surprised when Sherlock showed unnecessary compassion to strangers or acquaintances, so it has to be important. He closes his eyes, trying to use the vivid mental image of John in that hideous jumper to sink into the memory of the accompanying lecture. The older man only wore the damn thing twice before trying not to look too relieved when Sherlock 'accidentally' caught one of the arms with some foul bile during an experiment, so it should be far easier to reference than it is proving to be today.

Shock, blood loss and concussion; not a helpful combination.

The temptation to disregard whatever promise he gave John soon becomes enormous; it is not as though he will ever find out, and the jeweller's cries have become incoherent squeals between laughter and sobs as she works herself into an even worse panic. She is giving Sherlock a headache. It would not be the first time he has broken a promise to John, and it almost certainly would not be the last either, although it is rare for him to do so _deliberately_.

John will never know, and ignorance is bliss.

Ah. "Ignorance is bliss." That was it. When someone is happier not knowing, it is not always a kindness to force the truth upon them.

The woman does not want to die – that much is obvious. She may be in agony, but she is happier clinging to the hope that she will be, by some miracle, saved. Informing her that she will not be would not be a kindness, and would probably only cause her to become more obnoxiously loud.

Sherlock keeps quiet, simply watching as the bruises begin to form on her face and neck. He studies her wounds and calculates trajectories and blood-loss, taking as much data from her as he can. There is no sense in wasting it, after all.

Little things keep distracting him as a result of his own injuries, proving that he must be worse off than he can feel. He has been injured as a result of experiments and cases, and has repeatedly indulged in legal and illegal highs, but losing his ability to concentrate on useful or important data is a rare thing. For example, there is a pistachio macaroon four inches from the jeweller's hip, which Sherlock finds himself almost mesmerised by until the emergency services finally make their grand entrance (_Lestrade would have had men here in half the time_) and the right knee of a paramedic crushes it.

His medical and technical German are both excellent, so it confuses him when he finds that he cannot make sense of what is being said. A woman (_freshly-trained, single, former youth worker_) comes to hunker down at Sherlock's side, half blocking his view of the jeweller; she asks him five questions, repeating each one, but Sherlock cannot decipher a single word. After more than a minute of dreadful confusion, Sherlock realises with a jolt that he has been trying to translate her words using Russian.

"Robert," he tells her, grabbing her sleeve as she begins turning towards a colleague to ask whether he speaks any foreign languages. "I'm Robert Clarke. My hands and head, my hands and head are hurt, but I can't really feel anything – I'm in shock, you need to treat me for shock," he instructs.

His German is still somewhat wobbly, and he thinks he may have used the Spanish for "hands," but the paramedic offers a smile and a nod, ignoring his patronising words. "We are very good at what we do," she replies, speaking slowly for him. Her tone is warm, and full of confidence (_faked_). "You just keep still and try not to worry."

A ridiculous statement, in such circumstances. He cannot help but be concerned, especially when she is being so noticeably and excessively careful of his upper back. He has proven that he can move his extremities without trouble, and the concern she is showing with regards to a possible spinal injury is separate, in any case. There is something wrong with his back; something Sherlock is currently unable to feel. The thought makes him embarrassingly uneasy.

When they load him onto a stretcher with no more than a cursory check of his front (_not that he is concerned about that – his back was to the shop when it exploded, his hands broke his fall, there were no unexplained or unaccounted for pains as he landed, and he is experiencing no trouble breathing_), he allows himself to feel just a little afraid.

ooo

**Sherlock wakes in** a private room, his memories hazy and disjointed. He knows that he lost consciousness at least once in the ambulance, and thrice in A&E. At one point he was being readied for surgery, he is certain, however he has no recollection of waking up again between then and now.

He ignores the phantom cry of his name. It is a figment of a confused mind trying to find the familiar; John is not here, and will not be coming here, no matter what his half-drugged brain is telling him based on prior experience, and he needs to accept that quickly. Or, at the very least, distract himself until the stronger and more addling medications wear off a little.

He turns his attention to his location instead. The average idiot would assume that he is waking in the Kantonsspital, a couple of hours after a successful surgery. Sherlock knows better. He is on his side, facing the window, but the sound of the torrential rain just beyond the glass would have made it obvious that he is no longer in Lucerne even if he had been turned towards the door; the forecast there had been clear skies for the next three days. Aside from that rather obvious clue, the décor is simple, clean and reassuringly professional, but not overly cheerful as most hospitals are. Combined with the steady, smart footfalls and other ambient noises, Sherlock is tentatively confident that he has been kept sedated after surgery and quickly transferred to a military hospital. Mycroft's doing, naturally, so British military and reasonably close to London – Sandhurst, most likely.

A voice echoing in the corridor (_smart, clipped, respectful, and speaking English_) confirms Sherlock's inferences.

The owner is also speaking to his brother.

Sherlock allows himself one heavy sigh, feeling the bandages securing a thick layer of gauze to his back tighten as he does so (_slight pain – Mycroft has already begun insisting that Sherlock be weaned off the heavier painkillers_). He is in no mood to suffer his brother's company. They may have established a brittle peace between them, particularly after Dublin, but the majority of their conversations continue to end with stinging barbs and vitriol. Sherlock is frustrated and confused and still rather thoroughly drugged, and the last thing he needs is to humiliate himself in front of his older brother in such an impaired state. He wants to speak to a doctor, to be told what exactly has happened to him, when he will be able to move around, and what can be done to hasten his recovery; he does not want to spend the next hour being lectured for his evident mistakes.

It would help if he were able to determine just what those mistakes are – at least then he would have the advantage of being able to come up with an appropriate defence. Unfortunately, he has no idea. Going back through his actions, step-by-step, he cannot find one instance of carelessness or failure to follow proper procedures. There is nothing he would now choose to do differently, even with the benefit of hindsight.

When Mycroft walks in, striding across the small room to stand directly in the centre of Sherlock's field of vision, the concern and lack of recrimination written into his face make it obvious that he has already come to the same conclusion. It is a relief to know that he did not miss anything, that he was not responsible for the explosion, and Sherlock allows himself another sigh as he relaxes his tensed and dully aching muscles. The deaths do not _bother_ him, per se (_death is a fact of existence; lamenting it is pointless_), but the thought of having so much metaphorical blood on his hands was a distinctly uncomfortable one. People die, yes, and aside from a handful of important exceptions Sherlock is not at all troubled by that, but he is still not particularly comfortable with the idea of directly causing innocent deaths. Killing assassins and the odd serial killer is one thing; effectively murdering jewellers, tourists and shopkeepers is something else entirely.

"It was a set-up," Mycroft informs him, voice pitched low. "The work of the Colonel you identified as an agent, it seems. As far as we can tell, the Lucerne office was expecting one of our operatives in the near future but had no idea who would be assigned; they never would have suspected you without help. The Colonel arrived to 'bring them back into the fold,' as it were, four nights before the bombing. We believe he brought information and relevant surveillance from various other offices with him."

"Coimbra. Barcelona _had_ passed the word along," he mutters, irritated with himself for having disregarded a possibility out of sheer hope, "which is how they knew to follow me that first day. Then they managed to get a photograph out before your raid."

"Precisely." There is no apology there, and Sherlock finds that he is unwilling to ask for one when they are both clearly at fault.

"He didn't see me slip outside, then."

Mycroft's lips twitch, almost to a smile. "Not until he had pressed the detonator, and the two seconds he had weren't enough for him to do anything about it, obviously."

Sherlock offers a tight smile of his own, before asking, "My injuries?"

"Mostly minor, thankfully," the older man tells him, moving to finally take a seat. "You avoided any primary blast injuries thanks to your little smoking habit, but you suffered secondary and tertiary damage, as you should already know. I've been assured that none of them are serious. Shallow lacerations and deep bruises, that's all. Three of the deepest cuts had shrapnel embedded and may scar slightly."

"Of course. Neurotrauma?"

"Nothing serious or permanent. You were in and out of consciousness for a while, and apparently seemed confused… You were suffering both circulatory and mental shock though; some minor confusion and memory issues were to be expected. The concussion was only grade one or two, depending on which system you would like me to reference, and you were properly monitored."

Sherlock hums, largely unconcerned. "And my hands will be fine, I can see that much. What about my back, Mycroft? Or am I trussed up like this due to lack of an available training dummy?"

"Don't tempt me," is the retort, although it is half-hearted at best. "You suffered a rather serious second-degree burn across your shoulder blades and upper back. It was deep – required a skin graft."

"What sort?" Sherlock questions, eager at the thought of first-hand data with its many and varied advantages.

"Allogeneric. There will be scarring around the edges," he points out, entirely unnecessarily. Mycroft is far less fussy than the Brussels team though, which is a relief – had the elder Holmes discarded his usual detached demeanour, Sherlock may have had to request another stretch of unconsciousness in order to recover.

"Hmm. The shock prevented me feeling the pain of it," he mutters, uncomfortable with the knowledge that his 'transport' had hidden such a thing from him.

"A piece of burning debris landed on you," Mycroft explains. "It wasn't particularly large, but it burned through your coat and jumper."

"Irrelevant," he huffs, abruptly glad to have been without the Belstaff after all. "I expect I'll need new ones anyway, now that the Clarke identity has been compromised."

"We'll need to organise a new persona for you, yes. Do you have any preferences?" the older man inquires, and it is such a small thing, but Sherlock is incredibly grateful for the opportunity to choose.

"Erik Sigerson," he answers, after some consideration. "Everything is already in place – all the necessary papers can be found at number two Berry Way, Rickmansworth."

If Mycroft is surprised that Sherlock has managed to hide not only an entire third identity from him but also a property, he does not allow it to show. "I'll have someone pick them up, along with new clothes and essentials. I assume nothing sensitive was left in your hotel room – they'll have found it by now."

"Nothing," he confirms, allowing some of his irritation to seep into his tone. "I don't even leave the keyrings in the suitcase, after my 'abduction.' And I see my bag was rescued." He nods towards the corner cupboard, where the dark strap of his shoulder-bag is just visible, trapped in the door.

Mycroft dismisses the implied thanks with a flick of his wrist. "Then they have nothing of use. One, ah, one last thing, Sherlock," he says, and it sounds like a hesitant promise. The elder Holmes' discomfort is obvious, and Sherlock can feel his stomach clench. "With regards to your little collection. Do you need me to have someone procure a keyri–"

"No, thank you, no," he interrupts, almost babbling and feeling as awkward as Mycroft looks. "I have one."

"Right. Good, that's good." Mycroft is stumbling over his words as well (_understandable – they don't __**do**__ this_).

There is no long moment of staring in opposite directions – Mycroft stands and leaves without even a cursory farewell, and does not return. When Sherlock is finally discharged three hellishly boring weeks later (_Mycroft arranging for him to be kept 'safe,' yet again_), it is Whykes who arrives with his new identity. It is Whykes who drives him to a generous flat in central Cardiff; Whykes who cooks pancakes and makes tea at all hours of the day and night; Whykes who assists him with what remains of his injuries and dyeing his hair and eyebrows a more strawberry shade of blonde.

With the young soldier present, his longing for John's company eases just enough for him to sleep properly for the first time in almost two months. The twenty-five-year-old may not be the most heartening or mentally stimulating company, but he is company nonetheless and the familiarity is very much appreciated. By the end of the third day, when the younger man is preparing to leave on another assignment, Sherlock has fallen effortlessly into the routines and habits they kept in Brussels. It is almost as though the interim months never occurred.

He wishes he could be ignorant and naïve enough to believe that the same will hold true when he returns to 221B.

ooo

As always, thank you so much for reading, and I really hope you enjoyed the chapter. If you do have the time and inclination, I would love to hear what you thought; no flames please, but con-crit is always welcome. Thank you!

Oh, and just a reminder that chapter 11 will be posted in 2 weeks rather than the former schedule of one chapter per week, so it should come out on the 1st/2nd of July. Again, I'm really not doing it to drag things out – I just want to do my best to make sure that such a long gap doesn't happen again, plus I'm trying not to put too much pressure on my ever-amazing betas. I'm sorry, and I hope you'll be willing to keep reading despite this.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Length:** 3,904 words

**Warnings:** Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs

**Status:** Incomplete

**A.N.:** Oh, _wow_. Thank you so, so much for all the kind comments, reviews and messages; as I've said in several of my replies, I feel incredibly lucky to have such an understanding readership. Thank you!

I'm sorry this chapter is a few hours late, but hopefully it's worth the extra wait (and everyone, I'm sorry – you'll understand why soon enough). And, as always, I need to thank the wonderful **velveteenkitten**, **patchsassy** and **infinityuphigh** for all their hard work beta-ing my lunacy.

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 11**

ooo

**It is another** week before he hears from Mycroft.

"You should contact Miss Hooper," the older man offers in lieu of a greeting. "The news reports named your alias as one of the deceased."

Sherlock bites back a groan. He cannot claim to be keen on the idea of attempting to calm Molly. The woman stutters and stumbles through conversations with him at the best of times. Regardless of his continued gratitude and the concessions and exceptions he is therefore inclined to make, Sherlock would really rather not deal with her if she is worried.

"I suppose you won't talk to her for me," he complains. Mycroft's response is a disapproving glare. "Do you at least know when she is next due a day off, then?"

"Tomorrow morning," comes the pleased answer. "She is not the only one to show interest in recent events, by the way."

Sherlock cannot help the foolish rush of hope and delight, and the emotions colour his voice when he asks, "John?"

A nod. "Idle disgust and curiosity only, of course, as he has no idea any acquaintances or friends of his were involved. He expressed concern for the victims of the explosion during a conversation with Mrs. Hudson."

"You have the flat bugged again?"

"Yes," Mycroft tells him, unashamed. "And I must admit, I'm rather disappointed in Doctor Watson. He has yet to bother checking for anything. Unwise." Sherlock hums in agreement. "In any case, at least he's aware of some of the major _events_ in your life at the moment, despite being ignorant of your involvement. That's nice, isn't it, Sherlock? Should give you something to talk about when you get home."

Mycroft's tone is the same as the one he habitually used on John when mocking either Sherlock or the doctor, but that is not what the younger Holmes takes umbrage with. It is the phrasing of the concept. '_Aware_.' Considering how desperately Sherlock wants so much more than mere '_awareness_,' the word tastes like a curse. If he cannot have John here with him and has to wait to go home to him, he wishes he could at least contact the man and inform him of what he is doing. Receiving an interested email or a text of the word 'fantastic' or 'amazing' would not be the same as seeing the delighted and impressed (_faintly awed, actually_) expression on his friend's face, but it would be something.

Instead, he has 'awareness.'

It is infuriating. Whykes is an excellent doctor, but he is not _Sherlock's_ doctor and the detective spent almost every second being treated by him comparing the two. Whykes came up short every time. John would have been equally firm, but far less sombre; they would have laughed and joked, and Sherlock would not have minded being called an idiot just once or twice. The older doctor would have known when Sherlock was hiding something and would have barked irritable but concerned orders at him, rather than fussing like a mother hen when a complication or additional injury did eventually come to light. To any other patient, he is sure, Whykes would have been nearly perfect – intelligent, capable, and doting. In Sherlock's experience, however… Well, John is all those things and more.

He shoves the tally chart his mind has been keeping into one of the dark corners of his mind palace. He can wallow with it later. For now, Mycroft is here and will have news.

He opens the conversation the way he always does – with a casual enquiry and a firm grip on his emotions. Today, however, Mycroft is not following the script.

The words "they're fine" hold the same number of letters and syllables as they have since their inception, but Mycroft's tone is wrong. The reassurance is subtly tight, the inflection just a tad clipped, and the usual mild pleasure at the opportunity to bear good news to his little brother has been usurped by the peculiar sort of false happiness that screams for the conversation to be dropped. There is abruptly no air in Sherlock's lungs, his stomach tangling uncomfortably in his circulatory system as it relocates to much nearer to his tonsils. He needs to move, needs to move, _needs to __**move**_, and rises from his chair with all the grace of a jack-knifing lorry.

"Tell me," he demands lowly. "Tell me right now."

"Sherlock – "

"No." He recognises that his brother is using gestures designed to placate, and so all they do is add fury to his worry. "No excuses, no '_it's alright really_'s, none of it. Tell me what's wrong."

For the first time since he was eleven, Sherlock sees Mycroft flounder. "Everyone's alright, Sherlock – I wouldn't lie to yo– "

"But you're still not telling me!" he shouts, body jerking as he aborts the beginning of a stride towards the older man. "You aren't telling me, Mycroft, so obviously something is _not_ alright!"

Sherlock's hands rise towards his hair as he begins pacing, only to snap back down to his sides. There is no violin to play, no skull to turn around and around in his hands, but he will be damned before he allows Mycroft to see him tangle his fingers through his curls due to distress. Besides, for all his irrational fears, his belief that Mycroft would not lie about the well-being of John and the others is solid; not least because he has confirmed it so openly rather than insisting upon engaging Sherlock in their usual dance first.

Unfortunately, physical security and general health are not the only issues. The rest continue to flash through his mind without permission or mercy.

"Sherlock." He walks straight into Mycroft's umbrella, held out as a waist-height barrier. "John is taking steps towards finding a new flatmate."

The words register, but the concept makes no sense. Mycroft has to repeat himself twice, left foot twitching with annoyance, before the information sinks in.

John is replacing him. Replacing _him_. As though Sherlock is a boiler or a dishwasher or a pair of old shoes. The idea is ludicrous, and he would suspect some form of practical joke or test if not for Mycroft's own obvious distress at the news (_tie knotted too loosely, no neatly folded silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suit_). For all Mycroft's faults, he has never proven himself so entirely and intentionally cruel to his baby brother. In any case, Sherlock is experienced in the many ways in which facts can be far more than simply ludicrous, and pushes away the urge to deny it all.

That does not stop him opting for hope. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"She agrees that it may be for the best," is the heavy reply, "in theory."

"In theory?" Something bright and hot and overwhelming in its desperation flares in his stomach.

"Neither of them actually like the idea," Mycroft huffs, his distain obvious, "but they believe the other does and so neither will say anything against it. As I've told you before, caring only clouds the mind; both of them are going to end up miserable and resentful because they _care_ too much to have a difficult conversation."

It helps, hearing that they do not _want_ to allow a stranger to take Sherlock's place in their lives, but that does not change the fact that they are going to do so anyway. It does nothing to lessen Sherlock's desire to call them and protest against this unfair treatment. He wants to ask why they are doing this, why they cannot even manage the easy task of keeping his home open to him, when he is trying so hard and risking so much in order to be the man they have always claimed he could be if he would only try.

The memory of being sprawled on the pavement outside St. Bart's, vaguely shocked at his own survival beneath the stress and relief and continued worry, flashes through his head, mixing with the more recent memories of the bomb in Lucerne and leaving a bitter aftertaste. He cannot help the uncharitable thought that perhaps they would prefer it if he had been killed after all; that they have been taken in by Moriarty's claims despite their words to the contrary, or that they may prefer him not to return to disrupt their dull little lives regardless of whether they believe in him. Part of him protests, reminds him of how often Mycroft has informed him that they miss him and are trying to clear his name, but it is quiet and fragile in comparison to the many metaphorical voices shouting that they are replacing him, throwing what is left of him away.

221B is his home, contains all his valued possessions and a number of largely useless bits-and-bats he has an odd fondness for. Everything he owns under his own name is in that flat, and Sherlock returns to his chair feeling shell-shocked. They will have to throw so much away to make room for someone else.

"If neither of them want this, then how did it start?" he asks. Mycroft has mentioned on numerous occasions that John has been taking borderline obsessive care to keep Sherlock's things in their proper places, going so far as putting the three salvageable experiments into the freezer rather than throwing them away, and that Mrs. Hudson has cleaned his room quickly once every month. He has known, of course, that it is not because they believe him to be alive – more that there is a vague, subconscious hope combined with acknowledged respect and care to cause such behaviours. It is the same as any a parent, close flatmate or lover keeping their deceased loved one's room as it was. To go from that to allowing someone else to take up residence there, to take his seat in the living room and sleep in his bed, is rather a leap.

"John's sister. It seems that the argument is a regular one – she is concerned about his continued tenancy at Baker Street, and he refuses to move. It took a little manipulation on her part to convince him that it is what Mrs. Hudson wants and vice versa, but she managed it quickly enough. They agreed to wait until after the twentieth, to make things easier," he finishes, voice softening on the final sentence.

Sherlock would respond, if only he had anything to say on the matter. The situation is exactly what he expected.

"That's not even a fortnight, Sherlock," Mycroft prompts, obviously expecting something.

It does not take a genius to figure out what. "You're expecting me to tell you to stop them somehow. Sabotage it all," he states, the words flat and carefully devoid of emotion or inflection.

"If that's what you want." His brother matches his feigned stoicism stride-for-stride.

The suggestion that it might not be is more stupidity than Sherlock could have ever expected from a fellow Holmes (including mad Great-Aunt Edith). Of course he wants Mycroft to stop them, to save his possessions and his home at 221B, but his pride halts the words before they ever reach his throat.

It is irrational to be hurt by this; his excessively emotional response is completely without sense. Sherlock knows this. They believe him to be dead, after all, and in less than a week's time they will have believed that lie for over a year. The fact that they have waited so long to clear his memory from their home is a testament to how very much Sherlock must have meant – must still mean – to them. However, Sherlock is here, alive, and is as lonely as they are in London (_more so, in fact, because they at least have each other, and he may be Sherlock Holmes but this forced and near-total solitude is wearing him down; if nothing else, genius needs an audience_). He cannot help feeling a tad bitter that, whilst they can cut Sherlock out of their lives, he himself is trapped – stuck living as much for them as for himself. It is infuriating.

And it is that mix of hurt and anger which twists his face and fuels his vehement refusal.

Mycroft knows what it is that Sherlock really wants to say – that much is embarrassingly obvious. Still, he remains silent, and shifts the conversation to more professional matters. Sherlock is to be sent to New York City (_Mycroft wants him as far away as possible for the 'anniversary,' but also wants him to be reachable and respects his unspecified desire to be alone_), midtown Manhattan specifically, to procure evidence of a prominent public defender's less legal dealings. Krupler is a relatively easy mark; Sherlock would ordinarily feel rather insulted by the assignment, but the woman is effectively the gateway to six North American offices. Mistakes cannot be allowed, in light of which assigning Sherlock is the natural choice.

He holds his tongue and shifts the flight booking so that he may leave this miserable cottage a day early.

ooo

**The call to** Molly is awkward, to say the least. He waits until he arrives at the airport to make it, relying on the crowds and ambient noises to assist him against anyone listening in. Molly answers on the fifth ring, barely awake (_it is nine-thirty a.m. – she hasn't been sleeping well recently_), and proceeds to scream and cry despite his immediate request not to. She calls him Sherlock four times in the first minute; she only remembers the severity of their situation when he asks, tone dripping with distain, whether she is alone or has been broadcasting his status to all of Smithfield.

"I'm sorry," comes the distraught whisper. "I'm sorry, She– Robert. I'll remember. And I'm, well, I'm at home. Alone! I'm alone. So, ah, so no one else can hear a thing."

He chooses not to mention the possibility of phone tapping. The damage is, after all, already done, and her additional distress would only be an inconvenience. Instead he tells her that he's well and has changed his name, using another loud announcement over the airport tannoy to hide the muttered instruction to call him Erik from any potential eavesdroppers.

Conversation is minimal and predictable; there is little that can be said on his end, and Molly is openly uncertain about what to say. For once, Sherlock really cannot blame her. The current welfare of John and the others would be the obvious topic, but considering recent events at 221B… Well. Sherlock is thankful for her decision not to mention anything.

Of course, no sooner does the sense of gratitude take root than Molly decides that telling him about it is a necessity. Her voice stutters and stumbles down the line for a good minute and a half before she finally manages a quiet, "They're getting a new tenant at, um, at your place. 221B, I mean."

"I've been informed," he states, tone cold as that painful mix of fury and hurt rises again to choke him.

"Oh." There is silence for a long moment, and then, "Oh, well, of course. That makes sense. But, Erik, you do know they don't really want to, right? Whoever told you, they did tell you that part as well? Because you should know that John hates the idea, I think I nearly caught him crying last week after I found out, and Mrs. Hudson seems sad about it too. Like you were sad – when John wasn't looking. You know?"

He knows she's trying to help, to make it somehow 'better,' but nothing will – nothing _can_ – and he closes the short discussion with a clipped thank you. Or, rather, he tries to.

"Once you're back, they'll have your room ready for you. John, um, John said about clearing things out, but I don't think he really will. And they probably won't find anyone they like, Sher– Erik, so don't, um, please don't worry about it," Molly babbles, sounding so earnest that even through his black mood, Sherlock has to appreciate how desperately she wants him to be alright. To be happy, even, if he can. "And your brother probably won't let it happen, anyway."

That, however, is a sore spot. "I told him to remain out of it."

"Really?" She sounds stunned. "But why would you – I mean, wouldn't that be best? You've been gone a year, and I've been reading all the papers so I know how well you're doing. You'll be coming home sometime soon."

Hearing that she has been taking the time to try to follow his progress is touching, in a way; at the same time, having to refute that last statement is very like systematically dislocating his own fingers. When she makes a sound of disagreement, Sherlock cuts across and closes down all conversation, reminding Molly that he is at the airport and does not have the time for chitchat with a flight to catch. As though on cue, the tannoy loudly announces that the flight to Budapest at gate five is now boarding; it is not his, of course, but Sherlock takes the opportunity as it is presented and tells the pathologist that he has to go.

"You, um, you will be caref – I mean, please be careful, Erik," she tells him, shifting from question to order, voice suddenly firm. "We need you to come home, and I, I think, I mean, I _know_ you need to come home too. So, yes. Please be careful," is the last whisper, too confident to be called anxious but too _Molly_ to be anything else.

"I'll… I'll do my best. Goodbye." It is all he can offer. He doesn't wait to hear her farewell, hanging up immediately – honestly, he has no need or desire to hear it. It is terrible, saccharine sentiment, but Molly has reassured him that there is someone waiting for him to get home safely (aside from Mycroft, obligated by blood as he is); it is rather a nice feeling, regardless of how little it helps with the maelstrom caused by John and Mrs. Hudson's decision.

He spends the thirty minutes until his flight is announced going over his coded notes, determined to distract himself. Until very recently, he had told himself that it was alright to care about John and the others because that emotion drove him forwards, made him put exceptional effort into even the dullest aspects of his current work. Now he sees it for the weakness it truly is.

ooo

**Sherlock has heard** a great deal about New York City over the years, and is not disappointed. Even decked out in the designer labels and couture statement pieces Whykes brought for him (at Vicker's behest, apparently) to differentiate Sigerson from Clarke, he still blends in quite nicely. Alison Krupler (_thirty-seven, unmarried but desperate for a daughter, former Catholic, alcoholic, chose to work in Manhattan due to a long-term love of Broadway_) is, in the main, a dull, predictable individual; luckily, the people she surrounds herself with are anything but, and the various plots and intrigues between them easily catch and hold Sherlock's attention. The younger men of her little 'following' almost immediately accept him into their clique after he makes himself seen at a handful of supposedly invitation-only gallery parties and the like, and within the week they have invited him out to numerous bars, restaurants and shows.

Maintaining undetected surveillance alone is a challenge when he has to do so from the thick of things, and it certainly will not be possible for more than a fortnight – if he is even lucky enough to last that long. The frequent rushes of adrenaline are a welcome delight though, particularly after so many weeks of boredom, and the pressure to gather the necessary information and evidence in time only add to the excitement and Sherlock's subsequent enjoyment of it all. The dinners and theatre outings are all glamorous, extravagant affairs, often culminating in several hours spent in a hilariously pretentious bar where Sherlock's new 'friends' reveal far too much in their attempts to one-up each other. Their bragging makes finding the weak points in Miss Krupler's organisation far easier – after the first three nights in their company he knows exactly where to go, who to speak to, and which of their buttons to press. Putting the file together is certainly time-consuming, and sneaking into three separate offices, entirely undetected, in one night is a challenge all its own, but he manages it without any real trouble.

Sherlock barely has time to plan his next move, never mind dwell on the past or consider the date. By the time his job is complete and he can afford to take a breath, the anniversary of his 'death' has been and gone.

He is in a fashionable little patisserie just off Seventh, treating himself to a coffee and a strawberry tart after receiving confirmation of receipt from Mycroft, when the realisation hits him. It is the twenty-third.

Anger and upset swell in his chest, and Sherlock forces them back quickly; there are too many people around, and Erik Sigerson has become rather a regular customer at the café. He has to admit that he's been a little foolish in visiting so often – he has been there almost daily, enjoying a late-afternoon coffee and one small dessert or another. Sherlock may be adept at becoming another blurred face in the crowd when necessary, but as a customer – not to mention one like Sigerson, who fairly demands service and attention – his new wardrobe and undeniably British accent make him rather memorable. The waiter on the afternoon shift knows precisely how Erik likes his coffee and has taken to preparing it as soon as he walks through the door, delivering it to his table as he takes his order, plus he has exchanged nods of acknowledgement with more than a few other regulars. No, Erik Sigerson is known here; Sherlock cannot afford to make a scene.

Still, his cup slips slightly as his grip momentarily shifts, sloshing hot coffee over the rim to splash onto the tabletop. Nosi (_works three part-time jobs between studies at NYU, comic-book fan, had surgery on his right ankle three years ago – sports accident, probably cycling_), only two tables away, notices immediately and strides over, offering a handful of napkins and a charming smile. It is the smile that hurts the most; Sherlock is painfully aware that he had been wearing that same brand of easy-going charm himself a few days ago whilst, across the ocean, his grave was likely being shouted at and his possessions disposed of. He controls the flinch and the trembling of his fingers, but something must be broken in his eyes because Nosi is leaning that little bit closer and whispering concern.

He laughs, waving it off casually. "No, sorry – a phone call I forgot to make, that's all. Thanks, though."

The waiter is smiling again, teeth bright against dark lips and a blush just barely visible, as he offers unnecessary apologies and backs away. When Sherlock leaves not ten minutes later, he tucks a twenty-dollar tip beneath his mug in a rare, irrepressible demonstration of gratitude. It is not as though he will be returning, and the show of care was strangely welcome.

An hour later and Sherlock is pressing a far larger amount into another man's hand, receiving a small but generously filled packet of white powder in exchange.

ooo

I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. If you could, ah, refrain from hunting me down and killing me with a stick, I would really appreciate it.

Anyway, thank you, as ever, for reading. If you have the time and are so inclined, I would love to know what you thought. No flames please, but con-crit is a wonderful thing.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Length:** 3,722 words

**Warnings:** Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs

**Status:** Incomplete

**A.N.:** Thank you so much, as ever, for all the wonderful comments and reviews, not to mention all the adds here on FFn. They all mean the world to me, and I feel so lucky to be the recipient of so much kindness and enthusiastic support. Hopefully I haven't let you down with this latest chapter!

As always, I need to say a huge thank you to the marvellous **velveteenkitten**, **patchsassy** and **infinityuphigh** over on LJ for all their support and beta-ing expertise.

I do need to address two things that have come up in reviews, if you wouldn't mind allowing me just a minute of your time before the chapter.

The first has been mentioned back in my 'notes' before chapter 1: this fic is bromance or pre-slash, depending on how the reader wishes to interpret things. The main fic will not include romantic Johnlock - not because I don't like it, because I _really_ do, but because that just isn't what the story is about. However, depending on what you guys think when this behemoth ends, I would be happy to write an epilogue of sorts, posted as a separate one-shot so it will be completely optional to read. When we're close to the end, I'll set up a poll and see what you think (I won't set it up too early, though, as I'd like it if the responses were more informed as to how things turn out without it). There _won't_ need to be a majority - if there's significant interest and I can make it work, I'll write it. Okay? But those of you who are here for just a close friendship/brotherhood, please don't worry. I said this fic would be bromance, and I'm not about to break that promise.

Second, the time-line. I've been asked more than once whether I'll be sticking to the ACD canon of 3 years, and I'm going to be completely honest - I don't know. It certainly won't go _over_ that, but I haven't set myself any other time limit; I don't want to end up rushing anything to meet a deadline, or be trying to drag things out. This story will end when it feels like the right time, no sooner and no later. I hope that's acceptable to everyone.

Anyway, sorry for taking up your time with that - I just felt that it's important for me to make things clear, because for every one person who asks about either, there are likely to be three or four more wanting the answers but unsure of how to ask. And on that note, do _always_ feel free to ask me anything - you have my word that I won't be annoyed or insulted or anything like that, as long as you ask nicely and respect my answer (and knowing what a lovely readership I'm so lucky to have, I really don't think that'll be any kind of issue).

On with the chapter!

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 12**

ooo

**When Sherlock finally** returns to sobriety, a full fifteen hours later, his first thought is that he wishes he had died if waking in such a pitiful state is the result of surviving that level of binge. His shirt is ridiculously sweaty, clinging to his skin where it is still damp and chafing slightly where the fibres have dried out; he can feel the ache in his chest lingering as an after-effect of the palpitations that signalled how close he came to a dangerous overdose. It is rare for Sherlock to reach such a point and he cannot help feeling foolish – an unusual sensation to him, and only acknowledged due to the emotional 'come down' he will likely have to deal with for at least the next twenty-four hours.

His recollections are, in places, piecemeal. The highs may not have been _close_ to matching those he has known previously, except for the first, but the exhilaration and sparkling clarity they offered have jumbled the images and sounds, impairing his recall. Without Sherlock's usual unwavering focus on a case or experiment to guide his memory, he struggles to force the memories into coherent sense. His brain is exceptional, and he certainly does far better than any regular idiot would. Still, there is a disparity between what the brain can handle when stimulated to such an extent and what it can handle under usual conditions. He remembers speeding through triumphant, defiant claims over the phone to Molly; he remembers smugly deducing far too much about three men he stumbled into in the hallway and just barely winning the subsequent fight; he remembers screaming delighted realisations at the walls; he remembers becoming aggressive, shouting and throwing a chair across the room when his thoughts turned to John and the perfect high he was chasing was continually denied him (_no calls or visits from staff – the walls are soundproofed_).

In short, he remembers far too much, and Mycroft's eyes show nothing but cold fury.

His brother does not speak a word, simply sitting in the chair opposite the sofa Sherlock currently occupies, fingers white around the handle of his umbrella. Major Lucas packs Sherlock's bags in similar silence, unwilling or unable to break the tension that is heavy in the air. He dithers a little when he finishes the task, fetching glasses of water and straightening bits and pieces around the room before perching on the edge of the bed. It is his fidgeting that eventually drives Sherlock to take refuge in the bathroom; he refuses to feel any sense of defeat as he tears his gaze away from his brother's, and snatches up the clothes presumptuously laid out by the Major as he goes.

He does, however, flop wearily against the ensuite door as soon as he has flipped the lock. Displaying signs of weakness in front of Mycroft may be repellent, but Sherlock recognises the beginnings of an emotional crash. He had hoped that taking the time to sleep as soon as the last high faded would allow him to maintain more of an equilibrium when he woke; unfortunately, it appears to have done absolutely nothing to help.

Away from the judgemental and prying eyes in the bedroom, he can readily admit to himself that his little bender was a horrifically bad idea. Aside from the psychological backlash, the cocaine hangover is manifesting itself in relentless nausea, muscle pains and a terrible headache caused by the repeated changes in his blood pressure. They are nothing Sherlock has never experienced before. However, that does not make him immune or even resistant to them, and the severity of the headache, in particular, is making him want to drill a hole in his skull. The whimsy of the thought disgusts him as soon as it registers; trepanning has been scientifically proven to have little to no effect, and similar modern surgeries are only undertaken in very specific and severe cases. With a quiet grunt, he pushes away from the door and starts up the shower.

The hotel is 'a five-star job,' as John would have put it, and the bathroom contains a miniature wet-room for the power shower rather than it being attached above the luxuriously large tub. The pressure and heat quickly ease the throbbing of his head and settle his stomach, the relief from his hangover such that Sherlock cannot help but allow himself one long, low moan.

It becomes a sob a second later.

He hides the sound beneath the heaviness of the water, taking his time to regain his composure as he showers. The slow burn of his muscles fades as he massages the shower gel over his skin, washing away the hours of sweat and grime, and by the time he has dried off he almost feels _better_. The designer three-piece suit, on the other hand, is an annoyance rather than a luxury, and Sherlock discards both the tie and the slate waistcoat, stuffing them unceremoniously into his case once he emerges from the ensuite. A glance at his watch results in him forcibly suppressing a smirk – he has taken the better part of two hours to get ready, and Mycroft, regardless of his controlled expression, must be ready to kill.

Sherlock feels a twinge of pity for the Major – he is openly irritated himself, yes, but he will also be the one with the dubious honour of remaining in the elder Holmes' company from the airport onwards (_three ticket envelopes on the table, one for Qantas, two for British Airways_).

Mycroft rises with an impatient wave towards Sherlock's bags; Major Lucas hurries to grab them as the three men vacate the suite (_recognises that Sherlock will simply leave them, regardless of the inconvenience_). Sherlock's flight documents are shoved towards him during the ten-floor lift ride down to the exit. He checks the destination: Wellington, New Zealand. As far from Mycroft as possible, just about. He can admit that perhaps his brother has reason to be worried and perhaps a little angry, although he would shoot himself before admitting it, but the urge to snicker at his brother's childishness is still almost impossible to resist. If the older man would only deign to speak to him, Sherlock would, for once, be willing to admit his mistake.

Because it was a mistake. A momentary, pained impulse he knows he should never have indulged. It is not the first time that a desire for the blessed highs of his seven-percent solution has risen in his veins since he made all those promises – it is not even the first time in the last month. He has forced the urge back every time but this, and he fully intends to continue doing so.

Cocaine has always been good to him; refusing it, time and again, feels a little like consistently declining invitations from a dear old friend, and the itching in his brain has become increasingly intense. However, the last thing he wants is to return to London with a new-found habit (_because John would disapprove, _he knows but refuses to admit). Besides, his old friend certainly failed to show him the kindness he has been craving during this most recent visit. Sherlock may not remember all of the specifics, especially through the temporary depression, but beneath the high he remembers a desperation so deep his _bones_ ached with it and, as the night wore on, flares of anger so intense his hands shook. It is why he kept taking more – he was hoping that the next injection would make it better (_idiotic – he is lucky not to have overdosed_). No, cocaine has abandoned him when he needed its kindness most; he feels no inclination to repeat the experience.

Of course, he knows better than to believe it so simple as making a single decision now. The same refusal will have to be given time and again, every time the damned itch makes itself known. Regardless, he would tell Mycroft that he is determined not to allow this to happen again, if his brother would only cease with the theatrics.

As it is, they ride to JFK International in conspicuous and frigid silence, and Sherlock takes perverse pleasure in humming obnoxious renditions of '_God Save the Queen_,' '_Jerusalem_' and '_Land of Hope and Glory_' so that he can watch his brother twitch. Major Lucas absentmindedly joins in for a minute of the latter, until Mycroft pointedly clears his throat and the soldier realises his mistake. Sherlock indulges in a low, dark chuckle, mainly at the expense of the elder Holmes – when the Major glances his way, he finds himself wearing an almost grateful expression, small smile and all.

Once the three arrive at the airport, the decision to go their separate ways is unspoken but unanimous. Sherlock leans close to take his bags from the Major – too close, close enough to whisper a soft, "It won't happen again," and have it be heard.

"You sure?" comes the muttered response, the older man glancing cautiously across where Mycroft waits, facing away from them as he makes what appears to be an important phone call.

"Absolutely," Sherlock tells him, and, at least for the moment, he really is.

The Major studies him of a moment, then offers a slow nod. "Why not tell him that?" he asks a second later, jerking his head towards the still-preoccupied Mycroft.

"He's being a self-righteous imbecile," Sherlock snaps back, "and persists in the childishness of refusing to speak a word to me."

"Sibling rivalry." Amused.

"If you want to be trite and reductive about it, I suppose," he retorts, irritated. He straightens, snatching his bags rather than waiting for a response, and strides past his brother with a teasing, queenly wave. He imagines he can hear the older man grinding his teeth behind him, and walks towards the crowded check-in desk with a bright smile on his lips.

ooo

**Sherlock sees no** sign of the Colonel during his month-long stay in Wellington, and leaves New Zealand satisfied. His work has begun to be put to use even before he arrives at the airport (plus news reports claim the case against Krupler is an open-and-shut one, predicting a custodial sentence of fifteen years minimum), the urge to try his seven-percent solution has risen only thrice, and his 'disguise' has proven effective enough for him not to be associated with the late Robert Clarke by two of the network's best-informed offices. Buoyed by his successes, he speeds through investigations in Brasília, São Luís and Calgary before flying, business class, to the sun-soaked city of Palermo in Sicily.

His task here is a little different from the others, and should, arguably, prove more enjoyable.

The Sicilian Mafia are neither controlled by nor allied with Moriarty's (_the Colonel's_) network. Cosa Nostra is the original Mafia, the source of the term, and has held a significant degree of power over at least a sizable portion of Sicily since the late eighteen-hundreds; Moriarty had, as would be expected, realised that any attempt to undermine them would be crushed swiftly and without mercy. Beyond that, he would have been laughed off the island if he had been arrogant enough to offer them a partnership. Fortunately, the Colonel does not appear to possess the same awareness of his limitations.

Both Holmes brothers understand what is at stake here. They could, quite easily, leave the Colonel to his little negotiations – he will be refused, they can be certain of that. However, Moriarty had at least been allowed to run certain operations _through_ Sicily – after paying a small fee, of course – and with just a little push in the right direction, the Mafia's representatives could cut that important allowance entirely. The results for the Colonel, already trying to keep a sinking ship afloat, have the potential to be catastrophic.

Not that it would be any less disastrous for Mycroft, should things go horribly wrong. No doubt a more junior member of the British government would take the fall for the scandal of having a couple of their representatives found in negotiations with a known criminal organisation, but Mycroft certainly would not escape unscathed. His superiors, at least, would know where the fault truly lay, and Sherlock has learned the hard way that working with people who refuse to trust you is a recipe for both unhappiness and disaster. It is not something he would wish on his brother.

Regardless, Sherlock arrives on the island with anticipation thrumming through his veins. Here, for once, the object is not to simply _observe_, to remain unseen and unheard, but to _meddle_. It is like finally being allowed a full mouthful of the fleeting hints of drama he enjoyed in New York, and Sherlock damned-well loves the taste of it.

His hotel, a four-star establishment apparently recommended to Mycroft by a Japanese diplomat, is close enough to the bay for him to hear the waves as he steps out of the taxi. It is close to nine in the evening, the restaurants he has passed are obviously preparing to close and the bars heaving. He should go straight to one of the more upscale bars near the cathedral, should put his first night to good use by making himself seen and known to the right people. One glance at his suite changes his mind.

The walls are white on one side of the room and a navy so dark it appears almost black on the other, and the majority of the fittings are brushed steel; overall, it makes for an elegant, modern look even Sherlock has to admit he appreciates. Stepping into the room properly, he can see the doors leading out onto his private balcony, and the ensuite alone is almost as large as his entire room in Wellington – no, leaving this luxurious room tonight is not on Sherlock's cards. He orders room service instead, carefully selecting the most decadent dishes he can without the order becoming ostentatious, and finishing with a request for a bottle of fine brandy. Almost a quarter of the bottle ends up in the plumbing – and he is certain his brother would cringe at that – in order to maintain appearances for the staff in the morning, but he does allow himself a single, delicious glass whilst out on the balcony.

It burns all the way down, briefly making the still-scorching September air feel almost refreshingly temperate. Of course, the room has excellent air-conditioning, and when he finally drags off his abruptly heavy suit to sink into bed, the light cotton of the sheets is blessedly cool against his skin. He can hear the shouting and laughter out on the street, but does nothing to muffle it; keeping the balcony doors open has introduced a delightfully warm breeze through the room, and the noise is far too reminiscent of people stumbling their ways home after nights out in London for him to feel anything but affection for it. After only ten minutes, he sleeps.

ooo

**Waking is a** pleasure. Sherlock is tangled in Egyptian cotton and Mediterranean air, taking his time to wake for the first morning in what feels like a hundred. His breakfast consists of an espresso and an amaretto-soaked biscotti delivered by one of the service staff (_a young woman exactly John's type, incidentally_) and enjoyed out on his balcony, and it is almost eleven by the time he is showered, dressed and ready to head into the city.

The Tyrian purple shirt he has pulled from his suitcase is, he knows, perhaps not the best choice for the climate here in Palermo. The blended silk is light enough, but the shade absorbs heat far too easily; he knows better than to wear it here. Still, it is so like his old shirt that he simply cannot resist.

His lip curls. _Sentiment_.

With little to do until dinner, Sherlock indulges in a little sight-seeing. Palermo is steeped in bloody history from as far back as the eighth century, and Sherlock enjoys seeing the many combinations of cultural influence reflected in the city's architecture – the Cappella Palatina, for instance, is a stunning mix of Byzantine, Norman and Arabic features. Since beginning his partnership with Mycroft over a year ago, it is rare for him to have the chance to indulge his curiosity regarding any of the many cities he has visited. He must always be close to his mark, be it invisibly or hidden in plain sight, which does not allow for impulsive wanderings down interesting side-streets. There have been occasions, here and there, when he has a couple of hours between the end of one job and the beginning of another, but those are often used up by rest or research and it is with an odd sort of relief that he enjoys having these empty hours stretched out in front of him. He walks the streets as he pleases, visits cafés, and is able to take his time in choosing a keyring for John. He has one from New York, purchased out of habit, but since then has kept himself busy enough to avoid even approaching the idea.

Regardless of his enjoyment of the day in general, for almost an hour he hates the way that this influx of free time is forcing him to make a conscious choice.

He almost decides not to buy him one, as he has missed three cities now and in light of recent decisions made by the former soldier (and Mrs. Hudson); in the end, even Sherlock himself cannot be sure whether the purchase is made out of friendship or a spiteful urge to make the older man feel guilty. After spending almost an hour searching, he eventually settles on a miniature set of handcuffs – one cuff to be attached to the key while the other acts as the 'decorative' part of the keyring. They are not at all the typical tourist fare he has picked up elsewhere, but they fit both the city and Sherlock's purpose here, and he has to admit he rather likes them.

He picks up a second pair later, as he makes his way back to the hotel, feeling vaguely guilty that he failed to think of picking up a token for Lestrade until now.

By the time he is once again contentedly tucked away in his hotel room, the novelty of having a day to himself has worn off. Sherlock is all too ready for his 'business' dinner, eager to get on with his task here in Sicily. Anticipation raises his heart-rate as he freshens up, straightening his hair and donning the matching blazer to his smart, dove-gray slacks. He has met with criminals before, of course, and has attended multiple dinners similar to this one back in England. His gleeful excitement remains unmarred by nerves even as the restaurant's maître d' leads him towards his table.

Three men are already seated, conversing quietly. There is no sudden pulse of distracting adrenaline through Sherlock's bloodstream; his mind breaks each individual down into a list of facts and habits almost immediately, and he has to suppress a smirk. He had expected Mafiosi to be significantly more interesting.

Sherlock has never met Antonio Gattuccio (_formerly known as Anthony, father of three, suffers from hay-fever, avid reader, sports fan_) before this evening, but he greets the older man warmly with a hand-clasp and a casual enquiry into the health of his new baby.

If Antonio is at all surprised, he maintains a flawless poker face. A handful of friendly words later, Erik Sigerson is invited to take a seat at the same table as three of the most powerful members of the Palermitani Mafia.

The welcome sets the tone for the entire evening. Sherlock is still not entirely certain as to how his brother managed to orchestrate this initial meeting, but conversation flows easily between the five men. Little is discussed by way of business; instead, he is thoroughly entertained by the animated explanations of calcio fiorentino offered by two of the Mafiosi. The lack of significant progress is not a matter that gives him cause for concern just yet, though. He is offered an invitation to join them for another dinner two days later, in a more private setting, which is promising enough, considering he has been in Palermo for just barely twenty-four hours.

They _do_ offer just a couple of sentences regarding his conduct over a digestif of limoncello. Unintentional as it was, it transpires that Sherlock has managed to make the perfect impression. Indulging in an evening in his suite and a day of casual wanderings, rather than rushing to make contacts and investigate Cosa Nostra however possible, has made it clear that Signore Sigerson has little interest in exposing Mafiosi or interfering in their business dealings. He is approaching them with a single concern, and by doing so openly and through 'proper' channels he has at least earned the right to be heard.

After being told so many times that his diplomatic and interpersonal skills are questionable at best, Sherlock cannot help but feel just a tad smug as he leaves the restaurant with a wave and a smile. He certainly enjoys reporting the evening's events to Mycroft. This was, after all, not really supposed to be Sherlock's assignment. Much as the elder Holmes has done his best to hide the fact at every turn, Sherlock knows Mycroft far too well to be fooled – besides which, his brother has made his opinion of Sherlock's less-than-sociable nature clear on more than one occasion. It is more than merely doubtful that he would entrust such a delicate negotiation to him willingly.

However, Mycroft also never attended any of Sherlock's school plays. The two of them forget, sometimes, that they are the only ones who can so easily see through the other's pretences. Sherlock can admit to such a shortcoming, at least in the privacy of his own head; Mycroft, on the other hand, seems to believe himself above such a fault (_power complex __**and**__ older brother complex_). He never saw the way Sherlock could make an audience believe completely in his character, and he certainly never saw Sherlock convince his teachers of the most ridiculous falsehoods with barely the _least_ amount of effort.

Yes, Sherlock can admit that he feels just a little smug.

ooo

Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter! If you have the time and inclination to review, I would really love to know what you thought; no flames please, but con-crit is a wonderful thing and always appreciated.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Length:** 3,980 words

**Warnings:** Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs

**Status:** Incomplete

**A.N.: **Hello again! As ever, thank you so very much for all the lovely feedback; I know I've said it before, but those kind words really do mean the world to me. Unfortunately I haven't yet managed to reply to everyone, and I'm really sorry for that – please don't think that I don't appreciate you taking the time to review/comment, and don't doubt that I'm doing my best to reply as quickly as I can, but my Dad had a stroke last week and so things have been very hectic here. He's been very lucky (his speech and mobility are miraculously unaffected thanks to a blood clot in the back of his brain, of all things), but there have been a lot of hospital visits and even more worry. This does also mean that I might be slightly slow to update next week. I have most of the chapter written in a notebook thanks to the hours spent in the hospital café, but I've not quite typed it all up and edited it yet, so it will be getting to my betas late. Still, I will be doing everything I can to make sure it is as close to 'on time' as I can manage.

Anyway, enough of that. Thanks must, as ever, go to the wonderful betas I'm lucky enough to be working with: **patchsassy**, **velveteenkitten**, and **infinityuphigh**. They are fantastic at what they do, and incredibly generous with their time.

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 13**

ooo

**The wait is** more difficult to endure than Sherlock would ever have hoped. After New York, he decided to quit smoking, aware that it had been the first step back 'down the slippery slope,' as Mycroft always referred to it; the cravings had faded significantly, but his current inactivity is making them increasingly difficult to ignore.

In every other city he has read the papers or watched the local news, solving all the little puzzles, in spite of how painfully simple and trite they are, to kill at least a couple of hours a day while unable to sleep or awaiting confirmation of receipt from Mycroft. He has had the vast majority of the required data available to him anyway, after observing key criminals for days on end and inevitably wandering by a few extra crime scenes (_any professional is curious about the work of their peers – criminals are no different_). Sherlock has always been very careful to avoid notice as much as possible during his investigations, often passing as 'no more than a ghost,' as Mrs. Hudson most likely would have put it. After the disasters of Barcelona, Coimbra and now Lucerne, he has only become more determined to perfect his ability to remain inconspicuous.

Here in Palermo, however, he is not following a mark, and he cannot seek out the information he would need in order to solve the vaguely interesting cases. It is almost as though he is back in the flat in Camden, knowing there must be so very many interesting crimes to examine and yet not being permitted, even by himself, to turn his mind to a single one.

He could take a look at the simpler bits and pieces, of course, but he refrains. If he starts to indulge it will become that much more difficult to stop where he knows he should; it is all too probable that he would find himself close to a crime scene or making subtle enquiries before he even noticed that he had encroached onto the Palermitani Mafia's metaphorical territory. The fact that he would have no intention of taking his findings to the police is irrelevant. Even the most genial Mafioso would be unlikely to grant him the benefit of the doubt should Sherlock be spotted skulking around somewhere he shouldn't. And they would definitely spot him – his entire purpose here is about making contact, about being seen and, hopefully, trusted.

As with any criminal or gang, the most efficient way to earn (and keep) Cosa Nostra's trust is by 'looking the other way,' as it were; the representatives themselves made a point to mention their approval of the way Sherlock conducted himself during those twenty-one hours before their first pre-arranged meeting. The implication inherent in their comments was not subtle. If Sherlock wishes to remain in their good graces, he would do well to continue spending (_wasting_) his time in a similarly casual (_oblivious_) manner.

Regardless of what John is inclined to groan, Sherlock is perfectly capable of taking a hint.

The entire city is embroiled in the history of the Sicilian Mafia (_Palermo was the first city with significant association with Cosa Nostra_), beneath the earlier and more 'acceptable' history. Sherlock does his best to ignore it; the locals, at least, do not seem keen to publicise the association, which makes it slightly easier. He spends several extra hours sleeping, drinks an inordinate amount of coffee, and generally does his best to enjoy the city. Galleries and museums and gardens… By lunchtime on the third day of his visit, Sherlock feels capable of writing a three-volume guide to the city's history and landmarks.

He deletes half of the information immediately. It is tempting to rid himself of all of it – if not for the second dinner being less than seven hours away, he would do so without hesitation; conversation will not skip straight to business matters, Sherlock knows that for certain. In fact, they may not discuss them at all tonight, so being able to talk about and show interest in the city the representatives know as home could yet prove advantageous.

ooo

**It does. The** restaurant is a small one, and so thoroughly hidden away that Sherlock doubts he would have arrived on time if a car had not been sent to pick him up from the hotel, but it is certainly not private enough for anyone to feel comfortable discussing business during serving hours. Regardless of the owner's attempts to make them as comfortable as possible (_reserved signs on all the adjacent tables, yet they remain semi-prepared and ultimately unused_), the conversation remains light and amiable. If not for Sherlock's decision to use 'Signore' when addressing one of his dining companions instead of lowering himself to using what he knows are third- and fourth-string aliases, it could almost be mistaken for a meal between friends.

They remain seated as the restaurant closes and the staff are dismissed, the last waitress delivering a tall bottle of rosolio, five crystal tumblers, a pitcher of ice cubes, a box of cigars, two silver lighters, and a set of keys (_restaurant, front door_) before she takes her leave. The owner follows a moment later. He offers a nod to the table at large as he pulls the door softly closed behind him, and Sherlock glimpses the very edge of a dark, ornate tattoo curling over his left shoulder.

There should be nothing but tense silence in his wake; instead, Sherlock is in the middle of a surprisingly passionate 'conservation versus development' debate, whilst Antonio and the most senior representative commiserate over the costs of their respective daughters' recent weddings. Even as conversations draw to a close, the friendly atmosphere remains. Sherlock would have expected the fade into silence to feel vaguely oppressive, now that the subject of business looms, but he feels completely at ease.

Still, it would not do to become complacent, and he takes care to maintain a decent guard behind his smiling façade. Beside him, Antonio lights a cigar.

"Erik?" comes the call from his right. The youngest of Cosa Nostra's representatives, 'Ciro,' is holding out the open box of cigars, smiling brightly at his momentary distraction.

Sherlock is very, _very_ tempted to reach for one – they are obviously of extremely high quality, and the smoke Antonio is exhaling smells delicious. However, the whole point of his recent decision to quit again is that smoking has always been a significant trigger for him; indulging in the one vice never fails to draw him towards a second. It may have been over two months since his lapse in judgement back in New York, but Sherlock holds no illusions regarding the still-tenuous hold he has on his self-restraint and here, in the company at least three men who could very easily put him in contact with an excellent dealer, is not the place to test himself.

On the other hand, he is not ignorant of his position here, or of the possibility that a refusal could be construed as an insult. Negotiations such as this one are delicate affairs; during a similar dinner in New Cross, two years prior to meeting John, Sherlock's polite refusal of a second helping of dessert resulted in a complete break-down of the fragile meeting, and Sherlock arrived on Lestrade's doorstep ninety minutes later nursing a broken hand and multiple knife wounds. He has no intention of repeating his mistake, especially when the men here are carrying firearms rather than blades.

Sherlock has a job to do though, regardless of the risk to him personally. It is actually rather strange that he is hesitating to take a risk _now_, of all times. He has, after all, taken more than a few dangerous gambles in his life, a good portion of them recently. Faltering at the _possibility_ of a risk, and one that is so unlikely to prove fatal at that (he has almost ten years of experience shooting up, after all), seems a little ridiculous.

He is above agonising over a single cigar, but that is exactly what he is doing.

Sherlock consoles himself with the fact that the issue is a little deeper than that; this is his potential safety versus a (_mostly unnecessary_) strike against Moria– No, not even against Moriarty himself, but against the Colonel. It is certainly not a decision he had expected to encounter tonight, and without the promise of answers or an edge of adrenaline and excitement fuelling him it is not an easy one.

The voice in his head that he has come to associate with John has been remarkably silent of late – out of odd coincidence or his subconscious' recognition that the reminder of his friend has been unwanted, even Sherlock himself cannot say. It makes itself known now though, booming a firm, "_Not worth it_," through every last millimetre of Sherlock's brain.

Sherlock directs his attention back to the representative. The man's smile has dimmed just enough to be a warning, and there is a slight heaviness to the air – he has been silent for a full twelve seconds. In this situation, that is far too long.

"Believe me when I say I mean no offense, Signore, but no thank you," he tells him, forcing his voice to reflect the calm respect of his words. The tightness around 'Ciro's' eyes does not diminish, and Sherlock is left with no choice but to elaborate. And to do so honestly – any hint of a lie or evasion, and he is likely to die where he sits. "Smoking, for me, never failed to lead to, ah, _similar_ vices. As much as I don't wish to insult you by refusing your kindness, I think I would rather be able to continue to do my job effectively."

It is formal, and for a long moment Sherlock worries that perhaps it was _too_ formal after such casual conversation barely three minutes ago. Antonio is tense beside him as well, a sharp reminder that Sherlock is not the only one at risk here.

'Leandro,' the most senior representative, makes an approving sound. "Good choice, I think."

The tension disappears as quickly as a line being cut. Antonio lets out one low sigh before stomping on Sherlock's left toes – the man knows what he is doing, clearly, and Sherlock is hard-pressed to refrain from wincing.

He smiles instead, making it as open and genuine as he can manage as he can. "Thank you."

A round of rosolio is poured and enjoyed, and a couple of short jokes appreciated, before the question is finally asked.

It is, surprisingly, Antonio who asks it. "So, Erik, I'm sure we're all eager to hear why you've had me go to so much trouble to set all this up."

"If you don't mind me interrupting such a pleasant evening with talk of business," Sherlock quips, smirking. Business is the entire reason for their presence here, and they all know it; glancing around the table, Sherlock can see the same eager edge in every face.

At a nod from 'Leandro,' he takes the plunge. "I understand that you were previously approached by a gentleman regarding permission to run certain _ventures_ of his through Sicily. A Signore Moriarty?"

"You understand correctly," is the calm confirmation. The Mafiosi have small, knowing smiles on their faces, and each man's shoulders are relaxed: the fact that their dealings with Moriarty are known to outside individuals is neither a surprise nor a concern.

Sherlock offers a nod, allowing his comprehension of the subtleties to show on his face, before continuing. "As I'm sure you're aware, Signore Moriarty is dead and a former subordinate has taken the reins of his network – we know him as the Colonel, Colonnello." He leans forward, taking a sip of his drink before resting his elbows on the table, left hand supporting his chin whilst the fingers of his right tap the melody of _Funiculì, Funiculà_ against the dark wood. "My organisation, along with several others, does not approve of him or his leadership. Under his command, the network Signore Moriarty built from nothing has lost more than sixty percent of its worldwide hubs. He is sinking it with personal vendettas," Sherlock hisses, allowing his contempt to be made obvious, "and we have collectively decided to expediate the process before he drags others down with him."

Mycroft had been sceptical when Sherlock had suggested introducing himself as a representative of a rival network; it had been Antonio's approval that eventually forced the elder Holmes to acquiesce. Introducing Sherlock as a government agent would, after all, have been ludicrous, and their options had been rather limited. When the Mafiosi slowly, one by one, nod their acceptance of the story, he is certain Antonio must feel as vindicated as Sherlock does himself.

"We have heard similar information from more than one quarter," 'Ciro' tells them. "Over the last six months, our revenue from them has dropped by more than half."

There is silence for a moment, before 'Gianni' asks, tone low, "What would you have Cosa Nostra do? We're not inclined to go to _war_ for you, Signore."

"We don't ask anything of the sort," he is quick to insist, not allowing the unfavourable possibility to take root in any of the representatives' minds. It is true that the sudden refusal of previous allowances _could_ elicit some sort of violent response (_the Colonel is a military man; war between gangs would not be beyond him_), but Sherlock doubts it would come to that. The Colonel has previously displayed both well-used intelligence and patience, and the Holmes brothers have hope that he would recognise the folly of engaging the entire Sicilian Mafia whilst already trying and failing to deal with a well-equipped and well-informed outside force.

"It isn't your issue," he continues, "and none of us see any need for violence. The Colonel is, it would seem, busy enough. All we ask is that you no longer allow their operations to be run through your territory. You would be reimbursed, of course – by quite a generous amount, considering you'll be losing all revenue from them soon either way."

He leans back, lounging confidently against the wood of his chair, and takes a long, slow drag of rosolio to give the Mafiosi a couple of minutes to consider their response. Antonio appears similarly relaxed beside him, even sneaking a small smile Sherlock's way as the other men debate through a series of facial twitches.

They have good reason to feel so confident. After only seventy-seven seconds of silent debate, all three representatives smile Sherlock's way.

"We'll pass on the recommendation," 'Ciro' offers from his left. "There're no guarantees, you understand, but we should have a decision for you within the week."

"My plan would be to stay in Palermo until then, if that's acceptable?"

"Absolutely! We'll need you in town to make the payment," 'Leandro' booms from across the table, the words running together into a full guffaw.

Antonio sits straighter, intent. "You think we'll get a 'yes'?"

"We wouldn't waste our time putting forward the proposal if we didn't," 'Gianni' retorts. "It would reflect very poorly on _us_."

"True, true," 'Leandro' sighs, and downs his last two fingers of rosolio. "Such is the unfortunate life of a rep."

After over a year of working under Mycroft, Sherlock can certainly relate to that. He raises his own glass, newly refilled, and knocks all four fingers of the syrupy alcohol back in one.

ooo

**Sherlock gets the** answer he is looking for three days later, delivered with a miniature bottle of rosolio by 'Ciro.' There is a small note tied around the delicate neck of the bottle, explaining that in Sicily the liqueur was traditionally given to house guests as a sign of good luck, and signed by all three representatives. It is unnecessary sentiment, but he is definitely appreciative of it.

The wait has been only slightly easier than the one before the second dinner with the Mafiosi, but it _has_ been easier. Antonio took it upon himself to spend an entire day playing tour-guide to the local countryside, and Sherlock's time in the city itself has been made infinitely more enjoyable now that shopkeepers and baristas are offering him biscotti instead of cigarettes (_'Gianni' – has a younger brother with a drug habit, and an interfering nature_). Combined with such immediate success, Sherlock has to admit that he has grown quite fond of Palermo. It is not London by any means, nor a rival for her, but it is pleasant, at least.

He makes the payment (_gold bars, three-quarters of them bearing the stamp of the __**lesser-known**__ British Reserve and the last five showing a medieval knight – Mycroft has accessed the Holmes family's own reserves to meet the price_) in person, first thing in the morning. He has a flight to prepare for, there being no further need for him to remain in Sicily, and 'Ciro' insists that he be returned to the hotel by their car when he explains that he cannot stay for lunch.

Syria was supposed to be his next job, but the entire operation was scrapped two days ago. The country is not safe for its own people anymore, never mind foreigners. There is no advantage to be gained from a mission there anyway; according to the most recent intelligence Mycroft has managed to, ah, _acquire_, nothing has been heard from the agents there in over two months. It is unlikely that they were killed (_four men, all with enough well-placed contacts for them to flee the country_), but they also certainly will not have been so foolish as to leave any clues as to their destination. Sending Sherlock to Damascus now would achieve nothing.

Instead, he is bound for Anchorage. The planning has been rushed, and he is not at all prepared for the near-frozen climate, but he will at least have company. Amerson will be meeting him at the Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport; Sherlock did not get to know him particularly well during their three-week surveillance job together in Ankara, as they tended to simply pass one another as they traded shifts, but he remembers approving of how reasonable and sensible the shorter man proved to be. He has already sent Sherlock a message assuring him that he will bring a suitcase of thick trousers and jumpers for him, so they will be starting off on the right foot, if nothing else.

Sherlock is just considering the possibilities for a schedule as the car pulls up outside Hotel Porta Felice, and by the time he is inside and waiting for the lift he is no closer to a decision. There is a ten-hour time difference between here and Anchorage, and his total travel time is only twelve – he could find his mark tonight with a little effort, but he is not immune to the effects of jet lag. The last thing he wants is to miss anything because his thrice-damned 'transport' is failing him.

The lift arrives, little electric bell ringing, and promptly ejects the Colonel himself.

For a long second, neither man moves. It takes only a fraction of that for Sherlock to sweep his gaze over the larger man's smart black suit and confirm that he is armed with at least one gun (_loaded_) and three knives. The Colonel's eyes light with recognition a moment later, his jaw tightening.

The adrenaline hits, and hits hard.

"Signore Moran, your car is waiting outside to the left," comes the smooth, polite voice of the blonde (_dyed_) receptionist as she steps up beside Sherlock, obviously eager to help well-paying guests. A beat, and then she is looking from one man to the other with far too much interest for Sherlock's comfort. "Oh, you are acquainted with Signore Sigerson?"

"Not exactly," Sherlock cuts in, before the idiot girl can reveal anything else. "We shared a mutual acquaintance."

"How lovely!" she coos, and from the corner of his eye he can see her brunette colleague beginning to lean over the desk, hoping to hear a little better.

"Not really," he deadpans. "He committed suicide last year."

He cannot stay to enjoy her reaction. With one short, sharp nod towards the Colo– Mor– the Colonel (_no confirmation, could be an alias_) in order to keep up appearances, he steps around both of them and into the waiting lift. Sherlock's room is on the third floor, but he presses for the second and hammers the 'close doors' button with his thumb. It is doubtful the Colonel would kill him here, where there are so many cameras and witnesses, but it is only when the lift is finally moving that he takes a breath.

When the doors open onto the second floor, Sherlock wastes no time. He moves down the corridor at a determined run, and hits the alternative stairs at the other end at a sprint of just over five and a half meters per second. The Colonel will not be following himself, of course (_heading out to meet the Palermitani Mafia and cannot be late_), but it is overwhelmingly likely that he has brought at least one assistant with him (_increases credibility during negotiations_). It would only take a text to send them after him in the Colonel's stead; his tendency to err on the side of caution these days is not one he is inclined to abandon now. Not when to do so is to risk capture.

He does not slow his steps when he reaches the third floor, although he does take care to make them lighter, and as quiet as he can manage. When he is two doors away from his room Sherlock decelerates sharply, rushing to pull his key-card from his shirt pocket. He feels something catch and tear (_watch against blazer lining_), but he gets inside and closes the door softly behind him, immediately turning on the television before whirling back to press his ear against the wood.

It is a full one-hundred and forty-seven seconds before he hears footsteps, and an additional fifty-two for them to reach him and then fade away.

He does not sigh or waste time leaning, relieved, against the door. Nor does he bother to properly pack – everything of importance is in his satchel, and he has one small, smart holdall packed and waiting by the end of the bed in case of emergency. This definitely qualifies as such: it will not be long before 'friendly' enquiries are made at reception regarding Signore Moran's acquaintance and where he may be found. Sherlock grabs it, knowing he will have to leave immediately, abandoning everything else; he is already mourning the loss of so many fine shirts.

At least, he intends to leave everything. He does not make it even four steps before he is striding back across the room to grab the small, unopened bottle of rosolio. Even if it ends up being confiscated at the airport, he cannot leave a symbol of Cosa Nostra's kindness behind. Should they find out (_almost an inevitability_), the repercussions would not be at all pleasant.

Sherlock does not stop at the reception desk to check out; instead, he directs the taxi to the address Antonio gave him 'just in case,' and posts a cheque, his key-card, and a hastily-written note through the letterbox before continuing on to Palermo International. The scenario is actually quite nostalgic, being so similar to the many times he has left Lestrade the task of 'clean up,' as the detective once called it. He cannot help but smirk a little, remembering the way the older man would huff and grouse but still sometimes flash a grin his way – and, later, how John would offer a long-suffering sigh before marching after him.

He does not want the memories to be any sort of boon or comfort, but they are.

ooo

Thank you for reading! If you have the time and inclination, I would love to know what you thought – no flames please, but con-crit is more than welcome.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Length:** 4,253 words  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs  
><strong>Status:<strong> Incomplete

**A.N.: **I'm so sorry for the delay, everyone. I know it's only one day, but still, I'm sorry for being late. I'm afraid I must fore-warn you that the next chapter may also be a little late; I'm sorry, but I'm still playing catch-up, and with my family situation being as it is right now… Well, I'll be doing my best to get it to you on time, of course. Still, I feel like it's only fair to let you know that it may be a couple of extra days.

As always, thank you so much for all the wonderful feedback – again, I'm sorry I'm behind with my replies, but please don't doubt that each and every kind word means the world to me. I'm doing my best to catch up and reply to everyone, I promise. In the meantime, thank you for all the lovely comments and reviews, and for all the adds this story has received to favourite and alert lists. It's great to know people are still enjoying this scribble of mine!

As ever, a huge thank you has to go to the lovely betas I'm lucky enough to work with – **patchsassy**, **velveteenkitten** and **infinityuphigh**. Their expertise has once again proven invaluable, and their kindness seems boundless. Thank you!

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 14**

ooo

**Even in Anchorage**, it is clear that things are different. A week after Sherlock's arrival, Amerson (who has done very well outfitting Sherlock in thick trousers and jumpers, and refrained from mentioning the change of moniker) hurtles into their shared hotel room, soaked to the bone, and tells him, "New Big Bad's here."

It is not a surprise. Both Sherlock and Mycroft have been expecting something along these lines, and Sherlock knows, before his brother can offer even a sigh down the secure line, that he and Amerson will be instructed to continue gathering information, regardless of the increased risk. Sherlock would have refused to obey any other order, considering what a rare and valuable opportunity this is; they will certainly have to be more cautious, particularly Sherlock himself, but they may also be able to glean some insight into Moran's character and habits.

They already have a little to go on. The Network's new leader has taken to following in the footsteps of his predecessor in several ways, including in terms of his preference for using his real name. It took very little effort to find Colonel Sebastian Moran – Sherlock managed to find a decent amount through _Google_, for goodness' sake, once Mycroft confirmed that 'Moran' is not an alias. Educated at Eton and then Oxford University, he went on to join the military and trained as a sniper with the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards. While he is certainly nowhere near the skill levels of Francis Pegahmagabow or the legendary "Valkoinen Kuolema," he did have the honour of training with Craig Harrison for a short time, and, of course, is skilled enough for Moriarty to have spent time and money recruiting him.

Not that it would have taken much of either: Moran is a gambler and, although his departure from the Carabiniers and Greys is not _officially_ listed as a dishonourable discharge, he and his father have both been involved in dubious business previously. Remarks made by former classmates and colleagues on public platforms and in private emails are certainly not flattering or fond.

In short, he is exactly the sort of man Sherlock has been expecting him to be.

Anchorage is a miserable city, as far as Sherlock is concerned. As he suffers from the cold more than most due to his low blood pressure, he has never been fond of anywhere of a higher latitude than York (Newcastle is a trial, and Inverness is his idea of severe punishment), and Anchorage is already a frozen hell despite it barely being October. The frost has unfortunately arrived a little early this year, making every small task that much more difficult. Thus far, the greatest challenge faced by the two men has been adapting their camera equipment so that the lenses of the five security cameras they have set up around the mark's one-bedroom flat remain clear of frost overnight.

There is no formal office here. The city can easily become partially isolated during the winter months – all it would take is one particularly bad storm to close roads and restrict air and sea travel for a fortnight – so an office would be an unnecessary waste of resources. The tiny flat, however, is a very effective information hub, with seven alternative telephone numbers and the kind of internet bandwidth most commonly found in the head offices of FTSE-100 firms. The young man in charge of it all rarely ventures out, aside from a twenty-minute coffee break at the café three doors down the road every other evening (_ex-girlfriend is a waitress – he continues the old habit, half out of hope and half out of spite_), so the week prior to Moran's sudden appearance is mostly spent monitoring and documenting calls and data-flow. Sherlock, in particular, spends hours studying what little footage they have of the young man speaking either to himself or into a secured mobile phone, deciphering the individual movements of his mouth.

The footage is adequate for use as evidence, but it is still grainy enough that it takes him a full hour to 'read' a single sentence.

When Moran appears, Sherlock cannot help but feel that his delight is entirely justified. Not only is it obvious that the visit is unplanned (_has been undertaken because the Colonel sees 'Robert Clarke/Sigerson' as a threat – Sherlock had been tracked here_), it seems like a conclusive sign that the crushing boredom will finally be alleviated; Sherlock carries the hopeful excitement with him for forty-one hours before accepting that he will not meet his expectations.

Moriarty was, above all else, uncommonly interesting, and Sherlock finds himself almost upset at the unexpected mediocrity of the brilliant man's successor. Moran's background is unusual enough to catch Sherlock's attention, and even hold it for a little while, but his decisions (in terms of both action and _re_action) are disappointingly predictable.

It is enough to make him pity his former opponent. Had their roles been reversed, had _Sherlock_ been the one to die, he would have been mortified to be replaced by someone so ordinary in their incompetence.

Of course, as far as the public are concerned, Sherlock Holmes _did_ die; he could very well have such a replacement and simply not know it yet. The concept is not a pleasant one, unfortunately taking root in his mind during yet another long, boring period of inactivity over at the flat.

It could be John. _John_. Who, like Lestrade, _sees_ but does not _observe_. John, with his seemingly unending need to be on some form of battlefield. Rather than being a source of comfort or pride, the thought is a sickening insult. To have John, who may have been learning but still missed so much _every damned time_, even _think_ that he could do what Sherlock can…

Even more than that, if Lestrade _let_ him, encouraged him by bringing him into Scotland Yard and allowing him to assist with cases… Sherlock would have to kill either them or himself out of sheer humiliation.

ooo

**Observing Moran produces **very little new information. Both the Holmes brothers have conducted their own investigations, and although Sherlock's have been limited by his circumstances, there are still fewer than ten new bullet-points on his list. Even then, less than half the new data is of any practical use.

The intelligence gained from monitoring the flat's data-flow and telephone lines, on the other hand, is outright monumental. From the net connection alone they have caught finance reports relating to twelve current operations (and another sixteen minor scams), five personnel files, and numerous hints towards Moran's future plans thanks to the browser history. In fact, the information is so valuable that Sherlock finds himself persuading Amerson to drag things out for an extra fortnight.

Spending more than a month in Anchorage is not an idea that appeals to the shorter man (Sherlock himself is less than keen), and it takes a full day and a bribe of a half-shift and Chinese takeaway before Sherlock has him convinced.

Sitting out in the freezing rain, bundled up in black and gray to blend with the roof he is perched on, Sherlock regrets even _thinking_ of staying a little longer. He is cold and miserable, Amerson is far too like John, and he has a sneaking suspicion that not only does Moran know he is there but also that Sherlock is skirting ever closer to 'the ragged edge' by staying within his range.

He finally trades off with Amerson after a full thirteen hours out in the cold. Whilst it had been only the technician in the flat, leaving the cameras to do their work during the frigid nights had been a perfectly reasonable course of action. With Moran here, however, there are so many more opportunities for error, so many more possible scenarios; failing to have either of them follow him on any late-night wanderings would be a failure of the highest order. If Moran has any contacts here in Anchorage, they need to identify them immediately; Sherlock knows that Mycroft is likely to call him elsewhere soon. Amerson will be a decent safety net, remaining for at least four days after Sherlock's departure, but he has not fooled himself into believing the other man to be anywhere near as effective as Sherlock himself. It is why he has made certain to give the soldier the lower-risk shifts; why he insists upon being the one to transcribe any video of either man speaking.

Amerson is not oblivious to Sherlock's opinion of him, subtle as both men have tried to be. However, insulting as the implication obviously is, it is clear he agrees with Sherlock's assessment of his abilities.

Sensible, reasonable, and able to accept that Sherlock Holmes is more observant than he could be on his very best days. It is no surprise that Sherlock has found himself warming to Amerson, almost to the point of genuine friendship.

He chooses not to acknowledge the many ways in which the shorter man is similar to John.

ooo

**The first shots** are fired at just before ten in the morning. Amerson is miraculously unharmed, despite being taken by surprise; Moran meant this as a warning rather than a true offensive move. Amerson is twitchy, and gives only vague answers to Sherlock's many and repeated questions about the three minutes before the first bullet ploughed into the wall beside him. It had been close to the end of his shift, and the nervous defensiveness in both his speech patterns and his body language make it all too easy for Sherlock to conclude that the soldier had been dozing off, relying on the cameras to do his job for a few minutes.

He would like to be angry. He would like to shout and complain, to deride him relentlessly and demand that Mycroft send a replacement. If it were anyone else, excepting Douglas, Whykes, and (possibly) Vicker, he would do so immediately, but something about the way Amerson reminds him so much of John always catches the words before they can leave his mouth. It is infuriating, and only made worse by the fact that he is so angry with his former flatmate in the first place.

They agree not to inform Mycroft of the incident until their pre-arranged check-in, just over thirty-six hours away. It is, perhaps, a foolish move, and Sherlock certainly does not enjoy or approve of his ridiculous and sentimental desire to keep the older man out of Mycroft's bad books for as long as possible. There is method to the slight madness, though: sending an urgent communiqué to the elder Holmes would result in an anomalous, partially unsecured signal being sent from the flat, which Sherlock is not yet sure has been pinpointed. Although it is clear that Moran is content to play cat-and-mouse for the time being (_he is underestimating them, assuming that they are still here in Anchorage because they are struggling to gather the information they need without even considering that the opposite could be true_), sooner or later he _will_ make a move against them, and if the flat is compromised then effective extraction will be that much more difficult. Radio silence is beneficial to their safety, even if it does pander to Sherlock's weaker, more emotional impulses more than he would like.

They resume surveillance immediately, although they do switch to the third-string observation point (_the second is too open if Moran found the first_). Absolutely nothing has changed. Not that Sherlock expected it to. Moran is a former soldier, with sniper training and more than adequate funds and contacts to ensure he got at least one heavy-duty rifle through whatever security necessary – there is no reason for him to have brought in surplus contacts or, indeed, mercenaries.

By the time they report in to Mycroft the next day, Amerson has half-convinced himself that it was mere coincidence: a case of him being in the wrong place at the wrong time and ending up mistaken for a local gang member, nothing more. After refraining from informing his brother of the full extent of his partner's idiocy, Sherlock feels like throttling him (_Anchorage has a reasonably low crime rate and is a rather secluded city, so the gangs know one another_).

"Erik?" his brother calls, catching him just before he disconnects. "I have some news regarding the flat. The room is off the market – no further contacts made."

It is a rather obvious way to put it, and he could be offended that Mycroft has not taken the time to encode it properly, but the news is too good for him to feel anything but relief. "The – "

"I am not a messenger, Sigerson," comes the biting interruption, and Amerson sends a sympathetic look his way. "And I believe you have a job to do."

"Yes, sir," Sherlock manages to grit out. The little phrase is one he has become accustomed to forcing out over the past few months, but it still tastes like tea that has been left to stew for too long.

He hangs up before Mycroft can irritate him further, snapping an "I'm fine," to Amerson before stalking into the bathroom.

The flat is tiny in every way, but the bathroom is miniscule. It is also, unfortunately, the only room in which either man can get any level of privacy. The cameras installed in the other two rooms may be a precautionary measure in case the flat is infiltrated, but they are still there, still recording, still showing his every move to one of Mycroft's lackeys. Additionally, the shift system has been adhered to less and less, and the current surveillance point is barely one-hundred and fifteen meters from the bedroom window anyway. There are eyes everywhere, and Sherlock is very aware of the majority resting on him near-constantly.

It is not something he would usually consider a problem – he is the first to admit that he revels in attention of just about any kind. However, he is vacillating between moments of strength and weakness quite regularly as of late (a fact that sickens him and would horrify his brother), and he _needs_ some damned privacy before he snaps and tries to run. Considering his current location, it is doubtful he could manage even twenty miles before Mycroft found him and had him picked up again. The humiliation would be unbearable.

Not that sitting in an empty bath, muttering and brooding like any average idiot, is any more dignified.

ooo

**Sherlock spends the** remainder of his time in Anchorage almost vibrating with anticipation. In Palermo, he had been ill-prepared for even a minor scuffle, and just the simple escape had been a long-awaited treat. Here, on the other hand, he has a soldier at his side, a knife in his pocket, and a gun tucked between the notebooks in his satchel. He is _ready_ for a confrontation, _eager_ in fact; the fact that he was tucked up in the flat, nibbling at left-over spring rolls and sticky rice while bullets narrowly missed flesh just three hundred yards away is frustrating to the extreme. The lack of a repeat performance keeps him twitchy and more than a little irritable – two days before his departure, he snaps at Amerson so viciously that the shorter man belts him in the jaw.

Mycroft is entirely and characteristically unsympathetic, giving him Dusseldorf, of all places, as his next assignment. By now he has visited the city multiple times, and it is one of the most boring places he has ever has the misfortune of visiting; compared to London, the crime rates are far too low to be the least bit interesting. The streets are disturbingly clean, too, and the locals are almost unfailingly polite and professional in dealing with visitors, due to the frequent trade fairs and the city's continuing rivalry with Cologne. Even with the high quality of music and art both developed and displayed there, Sherlock loathes it. Unfortunately, there is very little he can say with Amerson listening in (not to mention he is, once again, on a cold, wet rooftop, whispering into a headset), so his anger and dread must be left to simmer.

Amerson understands, in a way, and leaves him to it. Sherlock cannot help but like him a little more.

Which is why it is upsetting, as well as infuriating and 'sod's fucking law,' as John would say, when the older man is found dead less than a week after Sherlock leaves him in the frozen hell of Anchorage.

There are no marks on the body to indicate torture, which is a relief to both Holmes brothers – and if part of that for Sherlock is due to the implied lack of suffering, he does not mention it. No drugs, a minor struggle at the very most… It could almost be a random murder of another nameless, faceless civilian, if not for the blatant 'execution' style of it. Sherlock sees the crime scene photographs: the bullet drove through the victim's skull at an acute downward angle, as though he had been forced to kneel before his 'executioner' (_speculation substantiated by bruising patterns on the victim's upper arms_).

Sherlock could count on one hand the number of corpses he has known personally _before_ death, if he felt so inclined; it is something of a shock to see pictures of Amerson with the back of his skull missing (_point-blank shot_). They never really made it to being friends, per se, but they worked in exceptionally close quarters on more than one occasion and Sherlock… Sherlock had not found him disagreeable, at least, despite his faults. It is regrettable that he will have to suffer the company of someone unreasonable as well as ordinary in Amerson's stead.

It is, however, truly _unfortunate_ that, of all the 'partners' and 'teammates' Sherlock has been forced to deal with over the past fifteen months, the first to die had to be the one who reminds him of John physically as well as psychologically (_military habits and mentalities have been common_). Sherlock is perfectly capable of identifying and rationalising his reactions to seeing the body of someone so like his friend, but that does not mean he has any real control over them. Nightmares plague him for almost a fortnight, not helped by Mycroft's refusal to send him a recent photograph of Doctor Watson and 221B.

221B… Oh, it is such a relief to know that he can return there after all.

Mycroft eventually expands on _that_ particular fiasco when Sherlock, having been successful in Dusseldorf, spends a week with him in Vienna in order to go over the information they have amassed and plan a strategy. It takes hours of what even Sherlock would have to confess as juvenile behaviour, but Mycroft finally cracks during their fifth dinner together.

The room had generated a great deal of interest, not only from legitimate potential tenants but from 'undercover' tabloid reporters and fans as well – the interest in Sherlock has not waned even after a full year. John had been miserable and irritable from the outset, often snapping at his potential flatmates and once, memorably, dragging a rude and persistent reporter from the premises by the ankles. Mrs. Hudson had cried through meetings with three of the nicer ones (_Mycroft had no part in their prompt decisions to find alternatives_), and John finally declared an end to it all after tossing a half-full mug of tea – stoneware and all – at a young man who apparently threatened to repaint Sherlock's bedroom "mauve with turquoise accents."

As much as he is still furious with his former flatmate for allowing the idiocy to begin in the first place, Sherlock feels rather proud of him now he has put a stop to it. The way Mycroft tells it, John seems to have defended Sherlock and his presence in 221B at every turn since his initial mistake.

Still, Sherlock has never understood the ideas of unconditional forgiveness or immediate empathy. The latter is often a lie anyway, albeit usually an unconscious one. As for the former, well, human beings naturally hold grudges over perceived wrongs – it is a part of their biological and evolutionary programming, similar to the way a child will shy away from flames after being burned. It is a survival mechanism: someone who has caused pain, emotional included, will always be treated with subconscious wariness at the very least. He fully expects that reservation to become a feature of his relationship with John.

Until Mycroft shows him the photograph.

It was taken a week after he bodily removed the reporter. Mycroft was able to prevent legal action being taken and, to some extent, shut the man up, but he had not quite been quick enough to silence three of his former colleagues. Derisive articles detailing 'bachelor' John Watson's supposed breakdown appeared in two glossies and The Sun, and the photographs certainly have him looking the part.

His skin still has the dull, grey hue Sherlock remembers from the day he killed Moriarty's hit men; his clothes are almost obsessively well-kept (_meticulously and expensively repaired instead of being replaced – sentiment_); his hair is longer and messier, and his face a little more lined than Sherlock remembers. Going by the poor light, low foot-traffic, and lack of early morning papers littering the steps, the picture was taken at between five-thirty and six in the morning. John hates to go to work so early, and once refused a job offer because the start time was before nine. Obviously, he did not sleep well (_bags under obviously sore eyes – not an isolated incident_), and is going out early because he is bored and cannot bear to stay in the flat any longer.

It _hurts_. Sherlock would never have believed it could, but seeing John like this inspires genuine, near-physical pain. He looks worse than when Sherlock first met him, for goodness' sake; in some ways even worse than when he was strapped to a bomb.

Sherlock expected an emotional reaction, particularly after recent events with Amerson, but nothing prepared him for this. He is shaking, his chest aching and throat tight, and Mycroft is eyeing him with an unflattering mixture of pity and revulsion. The elder Holmes has never really known how to deal with his little brother's rare emotional outbursts – bouts of childish tantrum perhaps, but never true sorrow or anguish – and he is clearly trying to hide his discomfiture behind scorn.

Sherlock passes the photo back to him, pulling on his own inscrutable mask as he does so.

"What's going to happen to the flat?" he asks with forced calm, redirecting the conversation although he already knows the answer.

"I have offered to pay for it, at least for the time being," Mycroft tells him. Sherlock can hear the embarrassment fighting with smug pride for dominance in the older man's voice. "John seemed tempted to decline, but it seems his desire to see me pay for my, ah, my part in all this won out in the end."

"As you knew it would." The words are more biting than Sherlock means them to be, but he cannot take the accusatory tone of the quip back now.

Mycroft's eyes narrow. "I can't tell which offends you more: the fact that I _made a mistake_, which I have apologised for on _more_ than one occasion, brother; or that I see John and London when you can't." His words turn cruel, twisting into snide barbs meant to wound. "Should I add that I've been taking afternoon tea with Mrs. Hudson once a month for the past eleven, or tell you about my three-hour meeting with Lestrade back in May? He took a swing at me – I'm sure you'd enjoy the story."

When they were children, instances of such cruelty were regular – with Sherlock being the most frequent perpetrator, admittedly, as he had been rather bitter about Mycroft's move to boarding school and apparent abandonment of his baby brother. They know each other too well; it is all too easy for one to hurt the other. Sherlock, however, has always been the only one willing to resort to physical violence if pushed too far, whereas Mycroft balks at the idea of lowering himself to it (_unsurprising – Mycroft is not nearly as adept at it, and uses his disinclination as an excuse for his inability to best Sherlock in a fight_).

The old urge to take a swing at his brother rises in Sherlock now, beginning with the tiniest twitch in his shoulder and a tingle in his hand; soon it is all he can think of.

He is older now though, and currently relies on his brother's help. For all that he has pretended that it is Mycroft in the weaker position here, honestly the older man could cut him loose at any time. Progress would be slower, certainly, and there would undoubtedly be more casualties, but sooner or later Mycroft would have Moran in custody and Moriarty's legacy on its knees. Sherlock's cooperation is a bonus, not a necessity.

It is not a truth he would choose to face if he had any choice in the matter, but denying it any longer is pointless and potentially dangerous. He needs Mycroft, has been relying on him for more than a year now, and no matter how much he wants to retaliate to those sharp words and that desire to hurt him, he has to walk away.

He stands, determinedly keeping it a fluid, graceful movement, and leaves the room without a word.

ooo

Thank you, as ever, for reading this scribble of mine. If you have the time and inclination, I'd love to know what you thought – no flames please, but con-crit is always appreciated.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Length:** 4,149 words  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs  
><strong>Status:<strong> Incomplete

**A.N.: **Buuuuh. I'm so late… I'm sorry, but things are still rather cray-cray here – in actual fact there's been a whole new level of insanity added, because I've been going to job interviews – so I'm back to being ridiculously behind with my replies to all of the wonderful feedback I've received. I'm doing my best to catch up again, but for the moment, please just know that I really appreciate the time and kindness so many of you are expending to offer me your thoughts and encouragement. The fact that you are still sticking with this scribble of mine, even as we reach chapter 15, means the world to me. Thank you!

As ever, I need to say an enormous thank you to my betas – **velveteenkitten**, **patchsassy**, and **infinityuphigh**. Without their expertise, I have no doubt that you'd all have been driven mad by my silly little errors; without their unending kindness and patience, I know that _I'd_ be the mad one by now.

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 15**

ooo

"'**Your absence has** gone through me / like thread through a needle. / Everything I do is stitched with its colour.'" Mycroft sighs. "Merwin, Sherlock? Really?"

The humiliation burns low in Sherlock's stomach, and he resists the urge to turn a glare on his brother. He knows that this is a terrible idea, and is more than a little disgusted with himself for even giving it serious consideration, never mind actually deciding to go ahead and do it. That said, he has just spent a night tossing and turning, unable to sleep because all he sees when he closes his eyes is the greyed and exhausted face of his former flatmate. Sherlock has never found sleep to be an easy bedfellow, in any sense of the phrase, but it has always been due to his mind spinning on too quickly to be caught; last night his mind stalled – _stalled_, of all things – and if this will resolve the problem, then he is willing to cast caution aside.

It is only a note, after all, and a quoted poem at that. He will pair it with flowers and send it anonymously – he has disguised his handwriting rather well, he thinks, and can use Mycroft to have them delivered. Owing his brother a favour, distasteful as it may be, is a far safer option than giving his details to a florist: false as they are, revealing his current location to a stranger would still be inadvisable. The risk is negligible; no one would ever connect Sherlock Holmes to flowers and poetry (although, contrary to popular belief, he does in fact hold a fondness for better examples of the latter), even if they were inclined to question his 'death.' Mycroft has no reason to worry, and the contents of the note are none of his concern.

Not that he will say so, knowing that the argument would be seen as petulant.

"I can't write a personal note, and this is short, honest, and entirely accurate," he bites out instead. "Not all of us feel the need for the pomp and tasteless gaudiness of a nine-page epic."

"You are showing a rather worrying level of sentiment, little brother."

"I was under the impression you believed any level of sentiment to be a weakness," he retorts, his lip curling slightly in the face of his brother's distain. It is not anything new, but Sherlock is not as entirely immune to the desire to impress his older sibling as he would have the world believe (not that he will ever let Mycroft know – he would rip his own throat out first), and this time the criticism stings more than usual; Sherlock himself believes the same, and seeing his brother's disapproval pricks at his own.

Mycroft shrugs, something almost apologetic lingering around his eyes for a split second. "I have long given up on fettering your care for John and the others; a degree of sentiment is expected. But this is ridiculous. You know better, Sherlock."

"He will never know who sent it unless I have the chance to tell him." Even as the words leave his lips, Sherlock is hoping otherwise.

"John Watson is not a stupid man, Sherlock – it was you who first pointed this out to me, remember? 'Not nearly so stupid as the rest of them,'" Mycroft reminds him, his tone as close to gentle as Sherlock has heard in years. "He may be able to guess."

"Would that be so bad?" he erupts, too loud and voice breaking on the last syllable. "He's still grieving, you said, and it's been more than fifteen months. Still lives at 221B of his own will, still visits my grave twice a week… Maybe knowing I'm alive, even if I can't go home, would help. Or at least anger him to the point that my absence stops being a bad thing!"

"And do you really think," Mycroft interrupts before he can open his mouth to continue, voice icy, "are you really so _stupid_ as to think that he would remain safely out of the way if he knew? Has that 'caring' mind of yours faded to the point that you believe nothing untoward would result from any realisation on his part?" He sniffs, glaring at Sherlock with such bitter disenchantment that the younger Holmes cannot fight the rising sense of shame. "He would exhaust every resource at his disposal to find you, draw attention to the both of you, and likely get you killed just in time for him to watch it first-hand. You want him to know you're alive because you feel guilty, Sherlock, and knowing he's in pain hurts you. This is precisely why sentiment is a defect found in the losing side."

There is no viable response he can give so he turns away instead, moving to stare out of the window and try to force his emotions back into the boxes his mind has created for them. Five minutes of nothingness passes, until he hears the soft thump of a paper file (_mid-sized, with fewer photographs than usual if he can trust his hearing_) being tossed onto the small coffee table. Mycroft leaves the room – Sherlock does not bother to turn.

When the streets are darkening and the ache in his legs becomes unbearable he moves to sit down, scooping the new file up as he passes; he does his best to ignore that the tiny card and its envelope are missing. Mycroft could have taken it in order to prevent Sherlock attempting to send it by other means (_no – he intends to send it_), and he can do without the disappointment that will result if he allows himself to get his hopes up.

ooo

**Desperate to avoid** a third, similarly unpleasant encounter with his older brother, Sherlock does his best to avoid Mycroft until he leaves Vienna a day and a half later. It is not an easy task. The two of them have only four rooms to share, including the bathroom, and Mycroft seems determined to keep a close eye on him. In the end, Sherlock spends his last five hours at the hotel barricaded in the living room, with the stereo turned up until he can barely hear the elder Holmes shouting through the door.

This would not be happening if Major Lucas had remained at Mycroft's heel rather than gallivanting off to Serbia. Mycroft would be maintaining his smug, professional front, rather than lowering himself to yelling over the dulcet tones of Johnny Rotten.

Sherlock picked up the _Sex Pistols_' disc for barely two dollars back in Canada, solely in the hope of treating Mycroft to their fantastic, anti-establishment rendition of '_God Save The Queen_.' He has always had a soft spot for punk, especially during his late teens and cocaine years, and the_ Sex Pistols_ are an excellent example of the genre – loud, vaguely clever, and decidedly 'fuck you.' Mycroft never approved in the least; the disc is proving its worth now, if his brother's furious shouting and violent attempts to get the door open (_futile – he barricaded it with the heavy desk and bookcase_) are any indication.

With only two hours until his train is due to leave, Sherlock finally allows silence to descend. Mycroft has retreated to the bathroom (_bergamot-scented steam edging under the door_), probably with a set of ear-plugs, so Sherlock hurries to throw his things together before shoving them roughly into his bag and dashing out onto the pavement. It has barely taken him ten minutes to escape, and with another eighty before he needs to head towards the station Sherlock can afford to take his time wandering through the city centre – he even has enough leeway to pick up another notebook and spend some time on selecting John's keyring, rather than buying the first half-decent one he sees.

Still, he runs for the first five minutes, using every short-cut he can remember. He would rather not risk Mycroft catching up to him. The external door is loud enough that he may have heard it, in which case he will be quick to investigate; an awkward farewell with his brother is the last thing he needs before making his way to Munich.

Vienna's streets hide him well. When Sherlock had first arrived he had stuck out like a sore thumb: bundled up in one of the thick jumper and trouser combinations that had been so essential in Anchorage but was conspicuously excessive here in Vienna. Now he is dressed up in a smart pair of wool-blend slacks, a silk shirt, and a dark, heavy designer coat. All in all, the ensemble is rather similar to those he put together for himself, back when he was allowed to make his own choices in such things; it is like he has donned his old armour, a thought which is embarrassingly comforting, and he can feel the way it affects his stance and gait.

He still loathes his new hair colour, though. The shade is flattering enough if he looks at it objectively, but he is tired of looking in the mirror and seeing someone other than Sherlock Holmes.

Nevertheless, his good mood remains, even after being pulled up for a spot-check of his ticket and passport at the station. The past week has left him on something of a high, despite the arguments with Mycroft; analysing the information they have and charting their progress has shown that they are closer to the grand finale of all this than either of the brothers had realised. The network Moriarty built outside Europe, linking hundreds of crime families and gangs across the world, has been all but obliterated. Those few 'allies' whose organisations have survived have all pulled back their support, refusing to aid Moran in any way after seeing their peers taken apart one by one – and all the faster since hearing that he has lost the implied support of the Sicilian Mafia. Those within the continent, who work for Moran directly, are all that remain. No more trans-continental flights, no more ludicrous climates, no more visas.

Sherlock could be home by March, if things go well. It is a wonderful thought.

Besides, Munich is a city he loved as a child; he has not visited it since the age of twelve, but his memories are of the delightful variety.

When he steps off the train, it is clear that little has changed; the same wide streets, the same beautiful architecture, and even the same corners playing stage for similar musicians. If there is one thing about Munich that he appreciates above all else, it is that the buskers here have _taste_.

Under the arches of Tal, any other city would have someone torturing a guitar or playing mind-numbing synth-pop on an electric keyboard. Instead, Munich showcases a quartet wielding a violin, a cello, a flute, and a battered upright piano whose wheels can barely take its weight. The group (_two men in a three-year relationship, a close friend, and the flautist is a stand-in – cousin, doing them a favour_) are mainly playing standards and the occasional request, doing their best to catch the interest of the crowds passing by as they come and go from Marienplatz. They're succeeding. Even Sherlock has to admit that they are talented musicians; he finds himself ducking into a noodle bar just to the right of them, disregarding his plan to have a light snack at the hotel, and takes a seat by an open window so that he can enjoy the music as he eats.

Pachelbel's '_Kanon D-dur_' is one of the most overplayed, abused, and outright bastardised pieces of music in history, despite being rediscovered less than a century ago. It is, therefore, also an excellent yardstick for measuring musical ability. These gentlemen play it beautifully; Sherlock has long-since lost interest in the piece, listening to it only when his goal is to assess the skill of a particular musician or orchestra, but this performance breathes new life into it. It is moving and personal, whilst still sounding as though it could fill any music hall in Europe.

Once done with his meal of nigiri-zushi and nyumen, he buys two copies of the album they are selling from the cello case. It is no surprise to see that there are fewer than five left.

It has been a terrible waste of an hour, Sherlock knows, but he refuses to regret it. If nothing else, he has finally procured a gift for Mrs. Hudson. Ever since buying the keyring for Lestrade, the thought that he should probably bring something back for his landlady as well has been an annoying niggle in the back of his mind. Honestly, if this sort of constant social anxiety is a consequence of friendship then the brainless majority can bloody well keep it.

ooo

**He is booked** in at the Leonardo Hotel, Heimgartenstraße, which is a little further from the centre of Munich than he would have liked to be. The fact that the two closest U-Bahn stations are on the same line does not help in the least; convenience was obviously not considered a factor when the booking was made. Generally, Sherlock is afforded the 'luxury' of choosing his own hotels and temporary residences (within parameters, of course). This time, however, Mycroft had taken it upon himself to organise things – partially because Sherlock had been preoccupied with some very interesting invoices – and the older man's choice makes it all too clear that the supposed kindness was, at least in part, actually committed out of the simple desire to be difficult.

He refuses to acknowledge the tactical sense of it; it will be far easier to ensure his location remains a secret when he can lose any pursuers between the city centre and here, rather than being forced to duck into doorways and double back on himself, but having to commute will be a pain. Sherlock loathes rush hour, even in London, so being forced to begin his mornings crammed inside an overcrowded bus or U-Bahn service is going to be horrendous. He wishes he had left the _Sex Pistols_' disc playing on repeat in his absence, rather than bringing it with him.

The hotel room is nice, at least. The Leonardo is clearly marketed towards professionals on business trips so there are no unnecessary fripperies, but it is clean and smart, and the bed is comfortable enough that Sherlock finds himself dozing off within a minute of his head coming to rest on the pillows.

This proves to be a blessing, despite the extra hour he loses, when he is forced to drag himself out of bed before seven the next morning. Waking at such an hour would not usually be any trouble at all, but the last few days have not exactly been conductive in terms of rest. Disregarding his current, John-related issues, sleeping whilst punk music was blasting at almost eighty-five decibels would have proven impossible even if Sherlock _had_ been inclined to attempt it (he had been enjoying Mycroft's reaction far too much to consider it, in any case), and the thirty-four hours before that were spent buried under Moriarty and Moran's respective paper trails. Aside from a brief cat-nap on the train, he had been awake for over fifty hours, so the extra sleep is very much a necessary evil.

Sherlock remembers when John, in spite of all his knowledge and experience as a doctor, was fooled into believing he was unaffected by such human weaknesses as exhaustion – or, rather, that he did not register the feeling, his mind disregarding the complaints of its transport automatically (Sherlock is very much aware of what he does to himself, of course, as well as the way hunger and uninterrupted adrenaline can sharpen his senses; he is simply adept at working through the more troublesome effects). They had worked their way through a handful of cases together before the shorter man caught him in the middle of a crash. Sherlock had worked too hard on a week-long case, skipping meals whenever he could get away with it and enjoying the chase too much to sleep, until his body finally collapsed and demanded maintenance. John had not been impressed, and Sherlock had never again been allowed to, as John put it, 'abuse' his body in such a manner – or, at least, to such an 'unreasonable' extent. There had, however, been amusement mixed with the concern and exasperation, as though his actions were somehow ridiculous: during a chat with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock overheard John liken him to a child desperate to stay up past his bedtime to finish a game.

Of course, the older man probably understands Sherlock's habits far more these days, judging by the state of him in that photograph.

The thought is a morose one, and singularly unwelcome. Sherlock is miserable enough, sandwiched between a large businessman (_call-centre manager, two small dogs, married, terrible cook_) and an off-duty nurse whose stilettos (_third date_) keep finding their way onto his toes.

He redirects his mind, going back over the information he has regarding his mark. Meinard Vogt is a shrewd man, and excellent with money – he has been the sole handler of the Network's investments for five years now. He runs a successful (and wholly legitimate) accountancy firm, registered under his Grandmother's maiden name. According to the footer of his most recent e-mail, it is located just off Marienplatz; of course, it still being there is dependant upon Moran not having realised just how much information he and Amerson were able to steal during their month in Anchorage.

Thankfully, that proves to be the case, and Vogt is easy to find – Sherlock manages to catch sight of him just before the man (_thirty-eight, unmarried, teetotal, passionate audiophile_) enters the accountants' building. Killing time in Marienplatz is simple enough, and the sheer volume of tourists coming and going hides him nicely; he only has to wander back and forth a little to remain below the metaphorical radars of any observers. People-watching is reasonably diverting for the first two hours, but by the time Vogt re-emerges Sherlock has seen far too many dull tourists and is bored stiff.

The older man takes his lunch at the Café Luitpold, barely a minute's walk from the Hofgarten. If it could be called a lunch – in actual fact, he eats two pastries and a miniature cake, and Sherlock tries not to smile when it occurs to him how much John would disapprove.

Not that his own choices are much better: a triple espresso and a delicious slice of chocolate gateau.

It soon becomes clear that, despite his supposedly high-pressure job, Vogt is not the most harried of men. He orders refill after refill of his cappuccino, and spends over an hour reading the morning's _Süddeutsche Zeitung_ from cover to cover; Sherlock requests a copy of his own after the first couple of minutes, and curses his high-school German tutor when he finds that he struggles with the colloquial terms that crop up occasionally. He finishes flipping through it long before Vogt finally decides that he should be getting back to work, entertaining himself by solving the more intriguing crimes and scandals until he sees the other man signal for his bill.

Sherlock manages to pay and leave ahead of him, which proves to be a mistake. He should have changed his appearance after Palermo: watching Vogt in the large, elegant mirrors lining the walls, Sherlock can see his mark's gaze sharpen when he catches sight of the strawberry-blonde hair and the smart coat. It only takes a moment for him to chart Sherlock's height and meet his eyes in his reflection, recognition filling his face immediately.

It is like a starting pistol has gone off. Vogt takes off at a brisk walk, striding past Sherlock and knocking a waiter out of his way – as soon as he is through the door, he is running. Sherlock is on his heels though, following him down Brienner Straße, right at the Karolineplatz, and on, rushing along Barer Straße towards the Pinakotheken.

This is not how things were supposed to go, but Sherlock cannot help the giggle that bubbles in his chest. The adrenaline is flooding his bloodstream, his brain flicking through possible routes and strategies, and he has not felt this aware, this _alive_, in months. He would happily chase this man across Munich and back, and hang the consequences; or not, because every second spent chasing Vogt is a second more the man has to pass on information or contact an accomplice. It would not take much for him to have all the files relating to Moriarty and Moran destroyed. Any sensible human being would have a code of some sort, a way to obliterate the evidence by remote; Vogt probably has a two-fold safeguard, consisting of a code for the electronically-stored data and a trusted secretary or P.A. to take care of any paper files – be they 'in the loop,' as it were, or trained to obey first and think later. The Holmes brothers may have enough copies of e-mails and files to guarantee at least a long and damaging court case, but that extra evidence would likely secure a conviction.

Vogt has yet to wrest his phone from his pocket. If Sherlock is going to act, it needs to be now. He masters his expression and locks down on the urge to laugh, painting himself as the wronged party. Vogt is fleeing: it will be easy to convince any bystanders that he is guilty of something.

"Stoppen, dieb! [_Stop, thief!_]" he roars, allowing his English accent to show through in the hope that a security guard from one of the museums and galleries in the area will move to assist him. "Aufhalten! Bastard, stoppen! [_Halt!/Stop! Bastard, stop!_]"

The uniformed guard sprinting their way is too far behind to be of any use, but a tall young man (_fine-art student at the Nuremberg academy, handball player_) sprints across from the steps of the Alte Pinakothek. He has a perfect line in Vogt's blind-spot, and the accountant is far too busy checking Sherlock's position over his right shoulder to bother checking his left. The boy tackles him to the ground just as the phone comes loose from Vogt's pocket.

"Danke, [_Thanks,_]" Sherlock says, remembering to dumb his German down a little as he pulls out his own phone. "Bitte, halten ihn. Ich werde die Polizei rufen. [_Please, hold him. I'll call the police._]"

It is not the best-case scenario by any stretch of the imagination, but the young man is eager to help and it is easy enough to evade the security guard's questions for the couple of minutes it takes for the Schutzpolizei to arrive. Sherlock has been keeping the majority of his copies of the evidence against Vogt in his bag, as well as the documentation from Mycroft to confirm that Erik Sigerson (_pointless to change his identity again now_) is on official business for Interpol; his efforts to be prepared for all eventualities have paid off. He hands all of the papers over to the Munich Police, who have been kind enough to send a Detective Inspector from the Kripo, as requested.

By the time the situation has been properly discussed, the young man has been relieved of his captive and is standing barely two meters away, eyes wide. Sherlock gives him Mycroft's contact details, telling him that there will be a reward for him – just mention Sigerson. The thousand-or-so pounds will be negligible in the grand scheme of things, but it will be an irritant to his brother. A little extra paperwork, and perhaps an apology or explanation to a superior or colleague: it is the best Sherlock could hope for. He may have only had to commute the once, but it was an unpleasant enough experience to demand some form of retribution.

It takes almost an hour (which Sherlock supposes is reasonable enough, considering the delicacy of the situation), but soon he has given all the information he can risk. Everything they need to know is documented anyway, written out in such a way that even the most oblivious cretin should be able to understand it, and there is no way that he can allow himself to be taken to the police station. There is nothing more he can do here. It is dangerous for him to remain in Munich; he will have to quickly pick up his luggage from the hotel and take a taxi for the first hour, until he hits Ingolstadt. Then he can make his way across the border and to Prague. There is an office there that he can deal with, and he will have time to re-order his schedule and contact Mycroft by more than coded SMS.

He is just about to slope quietly away when one of the younger officers shoots Vogt twice in the chest, and all hell breaks loose.

ooo

As always, thank you so much for reading this scribble of mine. If you have the time and inclination, I'd love to know what you think – no flames please, but con-crit is a wonderful thing.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Length:** 3,756 words

**Warnings:** Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs

**Status:** Incomplete

**A.N.: **I am so, so sorry, everyone. I know this has been a huge wait; all I can say is that I've had very good reasons for my disappearance and I'm really, genuinely sorry for leaving you for so long. My Dad injured his back, as I think I may have mentioned, but then I started a new job, my Grandad was diagnosed with cancer in his kidneys, my sister and I both had slight breakdowns, my Grandma developed a heart condition, my Mum managed to have pneumonia, and my Dad had a second stroke (not to mention Christmas, etc).

Anyway, I'm very sorry. However! I am back, and I have 2 more chapters almost sorted. I'll try to post every 2 to 3 weeks from now on until this behemoth is finally completed. We are, thankfully, edging towards an end (almost?) and with at least 1 chapter as a buffer I should be able to keep updates regular. I'm sure that some readers will have moved on from this scribble of mine, but to all those who have messaged me and new readers who have reviewed to ask for more, thank you ever so much for all the encouragement and support, and I will do everything I can to ensure that the remaining chapters go up on time. I'll be trying to reply to everyone personally in the next couple of days, but until then, all I can say is a big thank you to all of you.

I'm sure I've kept you waiting long enough without babbling on here, though. So, without further ado, here we go.

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 16**

ooo

**Sherlock should dive** behind one of the police cars – they are the closest and most effective cover, for the time being. Instead, he dashes for one of the trees lining Theresienstraße, ducking down beside a bench in order to make the distance without being shot. With Vogt taken care of, Sherlock is the highest priority target; it is only by virtue of the D.I.'s more loyal officers and their excellent reflexes that Moran's lackey has, as of yet, failed to eliminate him. The man is obviously a professional, and despite being overwhelmingly outnumbered he is achieving some level of success. The bullet meant for Sherlock may have missed, thumping through wood rather than fragile human flesh, but three of his former colleagues have not been so lucky. One is dead, while the other two are leaning against the front wing of the closest car, both attempting to dissuade the D.I. from trying to get to them.

It has been barely a minute, but Sherlock can already hear sirens amid the shouting and gunfire, which is so close to the city centre that it is no surprise that other patrols are already on their way. This should be good news, and in terms of capturing the gunman it is certainly a boon, but Sherlock cannot afford to be here when they arrive. He is carrying fake identification, is unlikely to be able to answer all their questions – despite there being an obvious link between Vogt, the gunman, and himself – and all it will take is one telephone call for the German authorities to discover that there is no Interpol agent named Sigerson. Sherlock will be detained at the very least, and the situation could quickly evolve into an international incident. No, regardless of the risk, Sherlock has to move immediately.

Just as he begins to slide his left foot forward, there is a scream from behind him. The boy who had tacked Vogt to the ground earlier, who had been so awed by what he had unwittingly involved himself in that he waited for over an hour to shake 'Sigerson's' hand, is lying on the edge of the grass that stretches out in front of the Pinakothek with a bloody hole torn through his stomach (_damage to multiple organs, heavy blood loss: he will be dead within the next three-hundred seconds_). Sherlock's own abdomen spasms painfully in strange sympathy – it is likely that the gunman mistook the boy for him in the chaos. For a moment, it is overwhelmingly tempting to remain where he is, tucked safely out of the line of fire. The sirens are getting louder though, and there is no more time.

Sherlock masters himself, readying his stance and tensing the muscles in his thighs. He chances a glance around the tree-trunk to check the location of Moran's mole, ducks back, and then breaks cover just as an explosion rips through the air. Memories of Lucerne assail him, urging him to turn and check for additional danger and threatening to slow him down, but he refuses to look and manages to maintain his speed. There is a sculpture two-hundred meters away; Sherlock focuses on the solid, concrete base and sprints for it, ignoring the gunfire and shouting he is trying to leave behind. Five paces away, he dives, crawling the last couple of meters to safety.

It was a short run, but a hard one nonetheless. Sherlock is working for every breath, all too aware that he can only pause for a moment. The line of trees between the road and the vast lawn of the Alte Pinakothek is fully between him and the chaos now, but it is mid-November and they have long been stripped bare. The branches and trunks will certainly impede a shot, but they are no visual shield. He chances another glance at the road, a longer one to both gauge the situation and satisfy his curiosity. The gunman is truly pinned now, the Schupo covering all the angles of escape, and two police cars squeal to a stop as Sherlock watches – the back-up officers immediately exit the vehicles and take up tactical positions, trying to expand and complete the perimeter steadily being formed.

What really has his attention, however, is the burning shell of one of the police cars. A lucky shot must have punctured either the engine or the fuel tank, igniting the petrol – it is clear that the initial blast was impressive. Sherlock had heard it, had felt the wash of heat, but it is still a shock to see the damage. It is the one the two injured officers had been leaning against, and Sherlock can see them lying flat on the ground – neither appears to be moving, but at this distance he cannot confirm whether they are dead or merely unconscious.

There is a third man lying by the dislodged rear wheel. The D.I. had ignored his subordinates' demands to remain where he was, determined to provide them with some level of defence, and the lapse in judgement has cost him his life. Even at this distance, Sherlock can see the burns, the bloody head-wound, and the glass scattered around him – he had been about to take a shot of his own when the car blew up, the rear windscreen shattering and the shards driving into his skull.

Sherlock cannot help but think of Lestrade, of the risks the idiot man has been known to take for the imbeciles placed under his command, and feels a little sick.

There is a shouted curse. Another of the Schupo has been hit, although this time it is more annoying than life-threatening, if his yelling is anything to go by. Sherlock has to move again.

He takes off towards the Pinakothek, zigzagging his way across the grass to present a more difficult target. Once he reaches the building itself, he runs around to the right, keeping close to the impressive structure and hoping the slight shadows cast by the high walls will provide a little camouflage. When he hits the street again, he peels away, feet pounding against the pavement as he tries to gain as much distance as possible. He cuts across to the right again behind the Glyptothek, sprinting over the lawn to Luisenstraße. There is a U-Bahn station just down the road, he is sure of it: he just has to hope that the trains are still running.

They aren't. Königsplatz station is closed, the staff apologising to disgruntled passengers as they wave them out away. The taxis, on the other hand, are plentiful – the drivers moving to capitalise on the closure and disruption. One is idling barely ten meters ahead of him, the prior passenger only just moving away, and Sherlock waves for it to wait.

The drive takes fifteen minutes, and Sherlock manages to persuade the man to wait whilst he fetches his bags. He leaves behind the paperwork he had unpacked last night; it is all relating to Vogt and the Munich office, and is of no use to him now. Besides, he gave his hotel address and room number to both the initial Schupo officer and the now-deceased D.I., so it will not be long before the authorities come to investigate. The evidence will be put to good use – there may no longer be a case to be had against Vogt, but there are a handful of other names mentioned that, after today's shoot-out, Sherlock is sure the German authorities will be eager to follow up.

He leaves his room with his smallest bag and his satchel, and goes back to the impatiently waiting taxi without checking out. Signposting his recent locations is not generally good conduct, but having worked alongside cretins like Anderson he knows that there can never be too many neon signs to help the authorities in the right direction.

ooo

**Sherlock arrives in** Dresden over five hours later, having switched taxis in Regensburg in an attempt to make it more difficult for him to be tracked. Ideally, he would have liked to have made at least one more switch (_Selb or Hof – close enough to the border to suggest that he fled into the Czech Republic_), but it was far too likely that the police outside Munich would have received both his description and orders to apprehend him immediately by the time he reached either city. As it is, he makes sure to introduce himself as Robert Clarke to both his drivers. He does, at least, still have a spare bank card and UK driver's licence under that identity with him, tucked away in the side pocket of his satchel.

He had meant to give them to Mycroft before leaving Vienna, but between the tactical discussions and more personal arguments, it had slipped his mind. He is glad of it now, despite them being a potential liability.

Dresden is, luckily, a city where Sherlock's local knowledge and contacts outstrip Mycroft's by a vast margin; the flat being used by the back-up for all three of the teams currently active in Germany is one Sherlock knows well. It is on the third floor of a complex on Metzer Straße, just across the Elbe from the Semperoper, and belongs to a musician Sherlock knew during his three-month stint living and busking in Dresden immediately after university. It had been an admittedly ill-advised (and, indeed, ill-fortuned) attempt to escape his family's various interferences in his professional life; still, it had been enough for a threat – Mummy had insisted that Father and Mycroft leave him to make his own decisions, determined to keep him in England at the very least.

He has the cabbie drop him off outside the Herkuleskule, paying a decent tip on top of the seven-hundred euro fare. He makes a show of entering the club as if in a hurry, only to leave through the side-entrance a moment later. Kabarett holds little interest for him, being so focused on politics; it is better than the usual inane jokes and trite dance acts found in French Cabaret, but Sherlock has little interest in politics aside from the potential it holds as criminal motive and he does not find himself regretting having to leave so quickly.

The walk to Metzer Straße is a cold one. As expected, considering the cities are of almost equal latitude, there is little difference between Dresden and London's mid-November climates, and Sherlock finds himself missing his scarf. The one bought for him is stuffed carelessly at the bottom of his suitcase: it is a scratchy, flimsy thing, and not a patch on his cashmere one. By the time he reaches the flat he is bitterly cold, not to mention in a truly foul mood. The day has not been kind.

However, it redeems itself a little now. Picking the lock would have been easy – he has done it before – but would also have resulted in an exceptionally unfriendly welcome, most likely with some form of violence involved. Sherlock knocks on the door instead, although he does not restrain himself from tapping his foot impatiently when it takes almost a minute for it to be answered. When it does finally swing back to reveal a tired-looking Douglas, his complaints about being left to stand in the freezing corridor die on his tongue.

A beat, and then he is being hauled in by the arm. "Fuck's sake, lad," Douglas growls, "don't just stand there."

"I was under the impression that Baines was running this one," Sherlock offers once the door is firmly closed.

"Yeah, well, the bloody idiot went and got his girl pregnant, so I'm stuck here instead," the older man huffs.

It is clear from the detritus still littering the flat that Douglas has not stepped outside since his arrival three days ago; however, he is dressed in a smart jumper and slacks, which Sherlock knows the older man would only choose to wear if he either expected company or intended to go out. During their time cooped up in the Brussels flat, it was always Douglas who spent his off-hours lounging in ratty shorts and soft t-shirts. The conclusion is an easy one to reach.

"You knew I was coming."

He receives a nod as confirmation, before being herded none-too-gently towards the sofa. "The Boss Man got a call from Munich – awkward questions, so don't be surprised if he rips you a new one when you call in – so he notified me," Douglas explains. "Told me 'Sigerson' would be showing up soon. I'd just got myse– "

"You have only ever known me as 'Clarke,'" Sherlock cuts in coldly. "If you were told to expect 'Sigerson,' only to find me at your door, it would've been cause for concern. You would've reacted," he finishes, stepping closer to Douglas to better study the tell-tale lines around his eyes and mouth. Irritation and disquiet burn in his stomach, and bile tickles the back of his throat. Douglas, like Amerson, is not quite what one would call a 'friend,' but Sherlock will not relish being forced to kill him if his rapidly-mounting suspicions are proven correct.

"You really think we're all stupid enough to fall for it, Holmes?" Douglas smirks. For a split-second Sherlock cannot help being surprised, but he masters it quickly and readies himself for the worst, fingers closing around the pen in his left pocket (_metal nib: can be used as a weapon if enough force is applied, especially if he aims for the eyes_). "I'm one of the most senior officers in this little organisation, in charge of the final assessments of all new recruits, you twassock."

"How da– " he tries; Douglas continues to speak over him, barely having to raise his voice to drown out the younger man.

"Even if I didn't recognise your face, I'd know the name from the personnel reviews. 'Sides, I'm trained to see through disguises – like dye-jobs and fake glasses," he snickers. "You're good, lad, but not _that_ good."

The last time Sherlock had felt so nonplussed had been during the tritely-named 'Blind Banker' case, when John had pinpointed The Lucky Cat as the shop they were looking for using Lukis' diary after Sherlock had rattled through his own – frankly quite excellent – findings. It must show, because Douglas is grinning. It is without malice though, oddly enough, and formed more of indulgent fondness than amusement at his expense.

"You knew all along then," he says, and it is not a question.

Douglas answers it anyway. "Yeah. Not sure whether Vicker's figured it out yet, but Whykes knows too, after the Boss Man made such a fuss over you after that bloody bomb."

Sherlock would argue that his brother's reaction to events in Lucerne could hardly be construed as 'fussing' (which he is undeniably grateful for); by the standards of the over-emotional masses it would probably be referred to as cold. Still, this is _Mycroft_ – the very fact that he was rushed back to the UK at the earliest possible convenience speaks volumes, before even considering the fact that he visited Sherlock personally. Certainly, none of Mycroft's employees would have received such attention, making it quite obvious that 'Robert Clarke' was more than another simple chess-piece.

Combined with his observational and deductive skills, how obviously personal the mission is to him, and the death of Sherlock Holmes occurring so soon before 'Clarke' suddenly appeared within their ranks… Well, in hindsight it does appear rather obvious. For a moment, Sherlock wonders if Amerson ever managed to figure him out as well, but an unpleasant thought quickly occurs to him.

"You seemed quite content to work with me," Sherlock begins, finding himself to be embarrassingly hesitant to ask the question now blaring in his head. "I would've expected to be treated with a degree of disgust if you knew – the media weren't exactly singing my praises by the end."

"Not really, lad," the bigger man tells him, and that fondness becomes more obvious by the breath. Sherlock does his best not to allow his discomfort to show. "We knew 'Richard Brook' was full of shite – we'd caught the bugger, remember. We knew who Moriarty was." Douglas shrugs. "I'd not really got any reason to hate you aside from the arrogant rep you'd got. And you haven't really been shovin' that in my face."

Sherlock replies with a non-committal hum; he had been doing his best to curb his better-known quirks and tendencies, so any comment he could make would either be a bold-faced lie or result in disillusioning the soldier. Despite knowing that the charade will almost certainly end soon, now that he has the security of being known to someone, Sherlock finds that he is genuinely unwilling to commit to either verbal response. He wanders to the kitchen instead, Douglas trailing after him, filling the air between them with pointless noise as Sherlock busies himself with making coffee for the two of them.

He sits with Douglas for almost an hour, humming intermittently in half-hearted agreement. He is not truly paying attention until the other man mentions "your Watson."

"Say that again," he says, interrupting without a thought for pretence.

"Your Watson," Douglas smirks. "Him and that D.I. – the one who nearly lost his job – they went to the review board and the media two days ago. Bloody brilliant. Seems they can prove you were – y' _are_ – one of the good guys after all."

"I am not 'one of the good guys' – why must you people always be so reductive?" Sherlock huffs. "I am not, however, a fraud."

Douglas gives him a sidelong glance, evidently unsure whether Sherlock is serious in his complaint. His tone is still slightly uncertain, for all its joy, when he ventures, "Still, good news, eh?"

Sherlock sneers. "The papers have far too much to lose to dare admit they were wrong."

"Don't doubt it, but they won't have a choice, will they?" A shrug. "If the review boa– "

"And you think they'll admit their mistake any more willingly?" he snaps, not bothering to hide his irritation or his distain. "The Yard has even more to lose, for god's sake. 'Police drove innocent man to suicide' – they'd ne– "

"They'd have to," the older man interjects, his expression stony.

"Oh, of course they wouldn't," is Sherlock's quick retort. "Police cover-ups are hardly difficult."

"You have public support, you know," the other man tells him, and Sherlock cannot help thinking that he is clutching at straws. "'Believe in Sherlock Holmes' groups and all that. The internet fuckin' _loves_ you." He grunts, then mutters, "Fuck knows why."

"The 'public' is generally formed of morons who will believe anything as long as it's in print," Sherlock tells him bluntly, ignoring the last comment. There is, after all, no reason to continue pretending to be anything other than himself now that he knows Douglas is aware of his identity; the poor reaction is expected and summarily ignored.

Still, knowing that he has support – even from idiots – sparks a warm feeling in the vicinity of his sternum.

He should not be arguing this. Despite his scepticism, this is good news, fantastic news, of the sort that he has been waiting months for, and he should be both grateful and optimistic. However, and perhaps it is due to his interactions with Kitty Riley and the many front pages he saw dedicated to 'his' story back in London, or maybe it comes down to his knowledge of both NSY and basic human stupidity, but Sherlock cannot help thinking that this will backfire spectacularly. It seems very likely that, rather than exonerating him, John and Lestrade's efforts will bury him entirely.

ooo

**Douglas leaves Dresden** with Sherlock two days later, when a replacement operative named Young (_single, bisexual, gluten intolerant, amateur rugby player_) arrives to maintain support for the two teams still remaining within the German borders. They follow the Elbe down to the Nationalpark Sächsische Schweiz on a pair of motorbikes brought for them by the Yorkshireman, where they cross the border into the Czech Republic under cover of darkness. From there they continue down to the E55 and on to a tiny second-floor flat in Prague.

Douglas has orders from Mycroft to keep an eye on him, Sherlock is sure; it is offensive, and he makes his displeasure known to his brother at the earliest opportunity. The office they are dealing with is certainly not enough of a challenge for Sherlock to require assistance, and although the two men are functioning well together, the arrangement is not one he is happy with. After twenty minutes of arguing, Mycroft assures him that he has an assignment waiting for Douglas due to start late the next week in Slovakia. The soldier politely pretends that he didn't hear every word, probably because Sherlock had inadvertently praised his skills.

Day after day, the awaited disappointment from London fails to come. For the first time since his 'fall,' Sherlock is reading the British news sites. What he finds is no small surprise, and Douglas' smug glee is almost tangible. With every article comes another former client, all of them coming forward to affirm that 'Boffin' Sherlock Holmes – 'the great' Sherlock Holmes, as the fickle media has now taken to calling him – was no fraud. It is irritating in the extreme that so many individuals had the ability to refute the accusations levelled against him, when none of them had the courage to come to his defence earlier. Sherlock is not surprised, of course – he fully expected that none would willingly be the first to step forward – but it is a disappointment.

With Lestrade and John taking the initial risk though, all are almost sickeningly eager to claim some of the glory inherent in turning back such a wrong.

Henry Knight's testimony is particularly powerful, Sherlock having been a child himself at the time of the initial murder, and results in special articles in several reputable broadsheets the next day. The evidence provided by an anonymous source (_The Woman_) covers multiple cases and has more than half of both the press and the review board tearing Lestrade's Chief Superintendent to sheds. Sherlock giggles his way through the online coverage, Douglas sitting beside him with ice cream and a beer.

Despite there still being almost a month to go before the enquiry is predicted to end, by the time Douglas leaves for Slovakia it would take an upset of biblical proportions to turn back the tide of support for the 'Believe in Sherlock Holmes' campaign.

ooo

ooo

Again, thank you so much to all those who are still reading this scribble of mine. If you have the time and are so inclined, I would love to hear what you thought of this chapter. No flames, please, but con-crit is as welcome as any praise (and if you just want to berate me for taking so darned long then I understand and will do my level best not to flinch).


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Length:** 3,397 words  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs  
><strong>Status:<strong> Incomplete

**A.N.: **My intention was to get this up quite a bit earlier, but I'm afraid that, in the typical style of my life at the moment, I managed to catch a bad cold and ended up in a routine of work-home-eat-unconsciousness. I'm so sorry.

Thank you so much to everyone who has either commented, reviewed or messaged me, especially as I think I really must have the most patient and understanding readership in the history of, well, pretty much everything. Seriously, thank you so much for all of the kind words, encouragement, and support. I'll do my best to deserve it!

On that note, on we go with chapter 17. By virtue of what must be a rather major miracle, the amazing **patchsassy** is still willing and able to give up her time to beta this behemoth; the lovely **velveteenkitten** is also reading through when she can, but most of her time is understandably taken up by certain family developments. I owe both of them an enormous thank you, and this chapter would be a lot more annoying without their input.

ooo

**SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 17**

ooo

**Two weeks after** the confrontation with Mycroft concerning his desire to somehow alleviate John's grief, Sherlock is staring down at the series of photos clutched in his hands in silent shock. He had dared to hope that Mycroft would have his note delivered, in spite of his best efforts not to, but never in his very wildest imaginings had he considered being given proof of its arrival. It is an exercise in self-control to keep his fingers from trembling, the bittersweet delight and anticipation setting a fire in his belly.

The first two images are blurred, but he can just make John out; he is in the living room, easily within the camera's view through the right window (_if these had been intercepted, the recipient would not have known that the flat itself is bugged_), and he has company. In the first clear photograph, Sherlock can see that the other figure is a pretty young woman (_dressed to look like a married housewife, but is in fact a divorced secretary working for Mycroft – obvious even at this distance_), whom John is standing to accept a small bouquet from. In the next, she is gone and John is sitting in his usual chair, frowning at the flowers in his lap; in another, he has lifted the accompanying note, reading his name on the front of the tiny, blue envelope. From there, barely a second is left between each photograph (_camera setting, not human skill – the photos are too steady to have someone's fingers rushing over buttons_), as John opens it and extracts the embossed, miniature post-card that the florist had so happily recommended to Sherlock.

For a moment, Sherlock almost believes the next six images to be copies. In the first two he assumes that the former soldier must be reading, but in the next four John does not even twitch; all that demonstrates the fact that they are separate images is the moving reflection of a bird in the window pane, and the slight shift of one of the large chrysanthemums dominating the otherwise modest arrangement of flora. He almost expects the seventh to be the same, and is taken aback to see John suddenly bent double, forehead pressed to his knees and probably crying out, holding the card as though he cannot decide whether to treasure it or rip it apart. In the seventeenth, he finally raises his head and there are tears – not to mention so much pain written into his expression that Sherlock hates himself for ever considering this. He knows from putting together the evidence gleaned from Mycroft that this has been bubbling away under the surface for far too long and the note will, if anything, one day become something for his friend to cling to, but right now all he can see is John crumbling because of his selfish message. Sherlock's own tears do more than simply scald as he gives in, allowing them to fall.

Between the last two is a short missive from his brother:

'_The card was presented with the bouquet as a gift of condolence from one of the "Believe in Sherlock Holmes" groups that have been springing up – he is unlikely to check the validity of the source._

'_He has yet to throw the card away. With a bit of luck, brother, I have framed this well enough that it will not end up endangering either of you. Do not presume that I will do so again._'

The instruction to burn the evidence is implied but unmistakable. If Sherlock is caught with these photographs Mycroft will not expend any time or effort to mitigate the consequences. He has to admit that it is understandable – neither man is of particular importance to the country. For all that Sherlock is currently proving very useful to his brother and the government, he knows that he is easily replaceable, not to mention that Mycroft is very much aware that he has no intention of remaining at their beck and call for matters like this once he is free to return home. And whilst Sherlock is family, that does not make him more valuable to Mycroft than his beloved government.

Taking the lighter to them is still far more difficult than it should be. To be given this connection to John, to 221B, only to immediately have to destroy it himself is torturous, and once he is watching the last photograph burn on the saucer he is using in lieu of an ashtray, he pours a good measure of Fernet Stock into the discarded teacup.

"Na zdraví [_cheers / literally: to health_]," he says, tone low, and downs it in one.

ooo

**There is one** final office to be dealt with outside Europe, it transpires; a three-man cell in the city of Girishk, located in Helmand province, Afghanistan. The Kabul office was dealt with months ago, but Sherlock has long-expected to find that another office is operating from the South. With all the instability the country has suffered through in the last decade, it would be sensible for Moriarty to hedge his bets and have another handful of operatives entrenched there rather than take the risk of leaving the Kabul office to attempt to balance the interests of clients from across the country. Girishk is a strategist's dream, as well – it sits on the A1 from Kandahar to Herat, only two hours away from the hot-bed of clientele that is Kandahar whilst remaining far enough away that the foreign military presence there has a minimal effect on their ability to do good business. The Southern terminus of route 611; barely two miles off the Helmand River… Had Moriarty chosen anywhere else, Sherlock would have been extremely disappointed in him.

Despite his distaste for the very thought of being stuck in such overwhelming heat and depressingly monotonous scenery, Sherlock cannot help thinking that it would be an interesting mission, provided he can talk his way onto the roster. Not least because John had spent time stationed in the area – the doctor had taken his bullet to the shoulder during the defence of a fort a few miles from Maiwand, which lies almost directly between Girishk and Kandahar. It is a combination of sentiment and curiosity that sees him argue his right to go with the four-man team Mycroft has assembled, although he tries to hide behind well-planned reasoning; his brother refuses without a thought (_Sherlock's desire to assist was expected, as were his excuses_).

Instead, Sherlock is instructed to remain in Prague. His file on the office here is almost complete, but boredom and frustration have finally succeeded in digging their claws into him. For all of Sherlock's complaints to his brother, it had been more bearable with Douglas as company, and without him it is easy to sink into hours of aimless drifting or burning fury. The news from London, which had seemed so interesting, becomes almost painfully boring now that there is a foregone conclusion and no one to discuss it with. Douglas had been put off by Sherlock's more honest remarks and temperament at first, but the older man had somehow warmed to him anyway, and the camaraderie of long-suffering colleagues had not only survived intact, but had dragged them close enough that Sherlock would be hard-pressed to justify denying him the title of 'friend' now.

His surveillance is almost complete, to the point that he only needs to 'attend' two small social events before he can leave. With his increased 'off' hours he unofficially toys with various small cases, re-reads '_Red Harvest_' yet again, and completes crosswords as though they contain secret messages from Lestrade and Baker Street. Nothing is enough. All too soon he has nothing left to occupy himself with, and without distractions, the reasons not to take unnecessary risks begin to fade into the nether-most corner of his mind. When the desire for a cigarette becomes unbearable, hinting at another slide down towards cocaine, Sherlock decides once and for all that he cannot – and perhaps even _should_ not – resist the urge to rub salt in Moran's wounds.

The Prague office is less than five minutes from Wenceslas Square, a fact that has caused him to release a brief snigger more than once. He breaks into it with almost absurd ease, before spending twenty minutes raiding what paper files they still maintain for their most recent – and most lucrative – consultations. He would much prefer to solve the puzzles using nothing more than his own considerable knowledge and intellect; unfortunately, the process of doing so would doubtless make him an easy target, and he has no choice but to settle for 'cheating.'

There is, after all, a much more interesting puzzle to turn his mind to.

It hits him after only a couple of minutes of going through the first filing cabinet that there is far less information available to him than he expected, even after compensating for tightened security protocols since Anchorage and Munich. Then again, if security has been tightened there is a worrying discrepancy between the security of their data and that of the premises. Sherlock had been careful to ensure that he was not walking into an ambush – he has been careful to avoid such situations throughout his time away from London – so he can at least be sure that this is not a trap, but that does not answer the question. Why was it so easy to get in?

Unless there is nothing to really protect.

No. That conclusion is invalid. These case files are legitimate, Sherlock knows that much from what he has seen plastered across news-stands and the deductions he has been able to make based on the information made public – information which could not have been falsified, because they would have had no idea as to what to change to confound him (if, indeed, they have become aware of his presence in their operational area to begin with). The data he has gathered here is genuine, and acting on it will produce the desired results: Moran's estimated loss should be in the region of fourteen-million Czech koruna (_approximately half a million pounds, going by today's reported exchange rates_), plus further loss of reputation.

The answer is that Moran himself no longer believes the survival of Moriarty's network to be an achievable goal. He is fighting, still, as is a soldier's wont to do, for his personal survival and the destruction of his enemies, but the few remaining offices are nothing more than strategic hubs, to be used and discarded as and when necessary.

Glancing around the dark office, Sherlock can feel his heart-rate rising, can feel the adrenaline beginning to release into his blood.

The agents here must have no idea that they are now nothing more than disposable pawns. Moriarty could never have been an attentive boss, but he built this Network and valued it highly as his life's work and his means of 'playing games' with Sherlock – proof of both his genius and the ease with which the regular idiots can be taken in. He may not have been overly fond of any of his employees, but he respected the fact that replacing them took more time and effort than he was willing to unnecessarily expend.

Of course, now that Moran's priority is to bring down those who have brought _him_ low, there are no such concerns.

Which is why he held no compunctions or hesitation when it came to ordering Vogt's murder.

Sherlock's steps halt. Vogt's death – and, more importantly, the swiftness of it – has been a soft tickle at the back of his skull ever since he hurried into that first taxi back in Munich and had a moment to breathe. The German had been one of Moriarty's most trusted employees (_given control over the Network's accounts_), and so would have been unlikely to break easily under interrogation.

Additionally, there have to have been some investments and accounts that were accessible _only_ through Vogt; he had been exactly the sort of man to guarantee his continued usefulness in such a manner. If he had indeed been as intelligent and loyal to Moriarty as Sherlock is giving him credit for (_justifiable conclusion_), then it is likely that he failed to provide Moran access to every account he could in the first place. Even now, the former Colonel is still new to the role of Oyabun – it would have been wise to keep something back in case he was deemed unfit and subsequently replaced. No, as leader of Moriarty's Network, the decision to remove Vogt at the first sign of a hiccough in Munich was irrational and foolish, and whilst Moran is certainly not his predecessor's equal by any stretch of the imagination, those are not qualities Sherlock has seen in his opponent before.

Which is why he changes the baseline for his assessment. As a soldier, aware of his distinct and perilous disadvantage, it was the best possible move. Too many eyes would have been on Vogt, even if the accountant had indeed refused to talk; too many investigations would have delved into his and potentially the Network's accounts; there was too great a likelihood that something, somewhere would substantiate claims of criminal activity. Killing Vogt did not solve those issues, but it did buy Moran time. The agent planted in Munich's police force would have had orders to kill himself if his arrest became imminent, and, failing that, at least one other agent is likely to have been planted is Munich's police forces. He would not have lasted three days, Sherlock can be sure of that much, even if that last, lucky shot had missed. The lack of both men and the overall distraction value of the entire debacle would have impeded investigations, giving Moran approximately a month to find means of limiting the damage – although, this estimate would have only been accurate without Sherlock's files, which will have closed the deadline as of yesterday.

No, Moran is not Moriarty. He never has been – in fact, he has spent at least three years at the heel of the genius, most likely playing 'attack dog' (_sniper at the swimming pool_) or 'contact' when necessary. His official past is not clean, cannot be clean; with his focus on his own survival, he would have more than one reason to fear a connection, to fear the right questions being asked, and if buying time was all he could do, then by god he would have done it in a heartbeat.

There is a bang from outside: the heavy main door just dropped closed. Sherlock takes a glance at his watch, and is rather stunned to find that it is almost nine-thirty – time for the evening checks. He has been so caught up in his realisations and the new conclusions they lead to that he completely forgot about the two men due to take a quick look around for intruders or, as would be more likely, anything 'off.'

Sherlock hurries to straighten the two filing cabinets he had been going through, all too aware of how quick and quiet he has to be. The agents downstairs will be five minutes at the most, checking reception and the four meeting rooms before they climb the stairs slowly, chatting all the while (_do not expect to find anything_).When they enter this room, they will both be off their guard – it would take very little for Sherlock to kill them both quietly and leave. He could be out of the country in less than two hours, if absolutely necessary, and with his file on this office now completed to his satisfaction there would be no serious repercussions.

However, Sherlock has never been seriously inclined to remove an obstacle in that way; he has been tempted, certainly, but killing people for such a reason has always felt ridiculously obvious and utterly beneath him. Besides, the complications it would cause may be minimal and quickly solved by Mycroft, but it would be foolhardy to invite them when an escape would be so much simpler.

It is also a great deal more fun. He tries for both stealth and speed, at first, creeping out of the archive and across the upstairs office, closing each door as softly as possible. He remembers the ricketiness of the third stair down, causing the stair beneath to creak under the added strain whenever pressure is applied, and braces himself against the wall as he takes one long stride over both. He abandons silence in favour of haste a moment later, when he hears voices entering the downstairs corridor. His feet barely touch the last five steps before reaching the large, sash window set waist-high at the turn, and he hurries to drag his tall frame through it just as he hears the two men below begin heading up the wooden stairs.

Sherlock had expected there to be hand- and foot-holds in the wall – the 'bricks' are pale stone, almost a foot tall and two wide, and there is substantial wear-and-tear around the edges. He has truly struck gold by using this window, though: there are several old iron pipes (_plumbing: used to be residential_) running just a handful of inches below his current perch. These run into a larger, stronger one, which stretches to the ground and beyond. It takes Sherlock's weight without a sound; by the time the light goes on, signalling the agents' arrival in the office, he is turning out of the back-alley and blending effortlessly into the evening crowds.

ooo

**Regardless of whether** or not Moran is still concerned with the Network's survival, Sherlock finds exposing the eleven criminals and cons immensely satisfying. The likelihood of it having any effect on the other man's grand counteroffensive is slim at best, but it is a show of power on Sherlock's part, and undoubtedly achieves his aim of adding insult to injury.

The Prague office falls with seven arrests, and Sherlock is finally ushered on to Paris. Setting his mind to bringing down yet another of the Network's information hubs – even one so significant – is difficult when he knows that he is effectively dancing to Moran's tune. However, he and Mycroft agree that letting their enemy know that they have him figured out would only prove detrimental until they have a better idea of his new plan. Sherlock makes the best of a bad situation by applying his deductive abilities to a variety of smaller, local cases; it soon transpires that sixty percent of the crimes have some form of connection to Moran and the Network (_lower employees getting nervous, wondering why they are being ignored, and taking cases on their own authority – a mixture of insightful and thoroughly moronic behaviour_), which speeds up the process of gathering information significantly. The assignment should take almost four weeks, but after only a fortnight Sherlock is sitting in his hotel room, bored out of his mind as he awaits the message from Mycroft that will confirm his success and provide his next destination.

In all honesty, he could figure it out for himself with only the bare minimum of effort. There are so few hubs left now, and only two warrant the assignation of an operative of Sherlock's calibre. It all hangs on whether Kheel has completed his file on Algiers in time to be assigned to the minor catastrophe occurring in Moscow. If not, Sherlock is the most obvious choice to complete the five-man team, especially with Douglas taking the lead of it. If, however, Kheel _has_ finished…

Honestly, he is a little afraid to even think of it. Hope, Sherlock has found, is as dangerous and debilitating as love; besides, he may be above thinking that an outcome could possibly be 'jinxed,' or any such rubbish, but after so much longing he doubts that he could take another disappointment.

It is another six hours before his phone notifies him of a new message, but Sherlock's frustration melts away as though it had never existed as soon as he opens it. It is two words, just two, the least information his brother could have possibly conveyed, yet Sherlock can feel his mouth stretching to split his face with a wide, delighted grin, can feel the uncontrollable giggle bubbling in his throat.

'_Confirmed. Edinburgh._'

For the first time in so many months, Sherlock throws back his head and _laughs_.

ooo

ooo

As ever, thank you very much for reading. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and if you have the time and inclination I would love to know your thoughts – no flames please, but constructive criticism is always welcome.

The next chapter should be up in approximately 3 weeks' time (I'll do everything I can to make sure that it's no longer).


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